Snippets
by Maraudercat
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles written for various challenges working from a character or a prompt. Rating for occasional language and violence in future.
1. Life goes on

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

Written for the Lucky dip challenge on HPFC

Character: Poppy Pomfrey Prompt: time

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><p>Poppy had served as school nurse for so long now that she could barely remember any other home. With just five years of experience at St Mungo's following her training, she had been sent to Hogwarts as a young assistant for Master Graves. She had arrived with some trepidation, for her memories of the old man were of his surly temper when dealing with crying children, and his foul-tasting remedies, though none argued that he knew his healing skills.<p>

She had not been surprised then, to be greeted with an abrupt command of "You, fetch the bottle of skele-gro from the top cupboard, and don't be all day about it."

Stowing her bags out of the way under an empty bed, she had done as he bid, and held down the squirming first year who had decided to sneak out a school broom before breakfast while Master Graves tipped the viscous liquid down his throat.

He had stumped away without a word of thanks, calling over his shoulder, "Your room is through the storeroom. Shove your bags in for now, and don't get too comfortable. The longest any of you useless lot have lasted is three weeks before I was sick of your ineptness."

Biting her lip, Poppy had followed his instructions, determined that she would not be the quickest to quit_. No,_ she had thought, _she was not going to be Old Graves's story to the next unfortunate, Miss Didn't-even-last-an-hour_. She had thought back to her meeting with Herbrand Derwent, the chairman of the hospital board, and Headmaster Dippett, where she had asked why they had waited until three quarters of the way through the school year to offer her the position. The pair had shared a resigned look, and Professor Dippett had mumbled something about unsuitability of previous assistants.

The months that had followed under Master Graves' eye were exhausting but educational. Poppy found herself mastering all sorts of problems including broken bones and other Quidditch related injuries, potion spills and spell backfires. She quickly learned to identify common jinxes, hexes, and the additional side effects from combinations.

After nearly two years, Master Graves had called her into his private office and closed the door. Used now to his mannerisms and abruptness, she saw a new side to him as he lowered his emaciated frame gingerly into a chair. "Well Poppy, it seems you've got the hang of this." Poppy had frowned, surprised at the rare compliment. With a wry smile, he informed her, "I've had enough. Professor Dippett is turning over to Dumbledore, and I'm doing the same to you. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself with the squalling children. "

And sure enough, he had handed his resignation to the new headmaster the next day, not an hour after the last of the students left.

Since then she had dealt with fevers, werewolves, three separate outbreaks of dragon pox, and two wizarding wars, not to mention dementors, dragons, and new Weasley products. There were less only half a dozen occasions where she had been personally unsuccessful in treating her patients (though one of these was the second war, where the sheer number of casualties still broke her heart).

And now, serving under her fifth Headmaster, Poppy was ready to say goodbye. Professor Jones had stoically accepted her resignation, and her assurances that her apprentice of the last four years was more than capable. She had helped young Teddy move his belongings into her vacated office, and he in turn carried her case to the front gate, where she would take the Knight Bus home. He had told her that she was welcome to drop by at any stage if she felt bored or lonely, or if she wanted to check up on his technique. In reply Poppy had reached up and patted his cheek, so like his mother's, and told him that he would be just fine.

As she waited, wand arm outstretched, Poppy had a last glance at the magnificent castle before leaving. It was time.


	2. Stupid

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

Written for the Lucky dip challenge on HPFC

Character: Vincent Crabbe Prompt: donkey

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><p>Vincent had been called many things in his life; stupid, useless, cruel, pathetic. His mother often criticized his posture and his poor marks loudly in front of whatever friends she had visiting that day. Draco Malfoy regularly sneered at his inadequacies, his lack of understanding, his general ineptness at life. Professor Snape, his head of house, and now headmaster had forced him to repeat his Defense OWL last year, handing him detention after detention whenever he failed to meet the required standards.<p>

He had suffered magical abuse too. Malfoy would hit him with a clouting curse if he started questioning his decisions. Thomas Urquhart covered him with boils after he accidentally hit him with a bludger at training. He had also learned, like the rest of his house, that one annoyed scrawny Theodore Nott at great risk of personal harm.

But never in his life had he been visited on by such ignominy as now, and that swotty bespectacled Ravenclaw was going to suffer for it. All he had been doing was ensuring that those rude little first-years understood he was in charge. He was a seventh-year Slytherin after all, a member of the Inquisitorial Squad that reported directly to Headmaster Snape. Then Boot had come along, all fancy words and insults, goading him into anger. The phrase "intelligent as a donkey's arse" had garnered a laugh from the onlookers. To Vincent, it was just one more person calling him stupid, and that wouldn't do.

"Crucio!"

He knew he wouldn't get in trouble for it, the bastard was asking for pain, and he was going to teach him his place. Boot had doubled over on the floor, gasping, but certainly not screaming in pain. Then he stood, brandishing his wand savagely, crying something incomprehensible, and Vincent found himself struggling to balance his newly acquired hooves on the stone floor while the surrounding students laughed.

"I thought you said donkey's arse," quipped Corner, grinning as he threw an arm around his best friend's shoulders to steady him. Vincent heard Boot reply, "It's a bit difficult to have an arse without the rest of the donkey attached."

And they walked off together, herding their giggling first-years ahead of them, leaving Vincent braying in the corridor until help arrived.


	3. A chat with the headmistress

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

As a personal challenge, I decided to list all the Next Gen kids, and write a drabble with a prompt obtained by randomly flicking through HBP.

Character: Teddy Lupin Prompt: Dumbledore

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><p>"What are you doing in here?"<p>

Teddy started, and glanced around, searching for the unexpected voice. Realising quickly that there was no-one else in the room with him, he turned his attention to the portraits and singled out the old man who was smiling at him. The same face he had seen on the back of about twenty of his chocolate frog cards, the man revered by just about everyone he knew.

"Professor Dumbledore."

"Ah, you recognise me? Glad to hear they still haven't taken me off the chocolate frog cards."

Teddy flushed, wondering if the painting could read thoughts.

"So young Mr Lupin...I am assuming by your interesting choice of hair color that is who you are?" Teddy nodded, still crimson, "is there any particular reason you are visiting Pomona's office, or did you simply stop by for a chat?"

Teddy noticed the portrait's eyes wandering up to his hair again. He reached up and pulled down a strand, and was horrified to see it had turned the same color as his face. He was still busy trying to think of something to say, when the door slid open and Headmistress Sprout swept in.

"Mister Lupin, please sit, and we can discuss the disadvantages of impersonating house prefects."


	4. Best place in the world

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

Again from my personal challenge

Character: Victoire Weasley Prompt: Hermione

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><p>Victorie had always loved visiting Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron. There house was a rambling three-storey affair surrounded by fields and forest, with a creek running just past the back door. The inside was decorated in the style of an old farm-house, similar to the Burrow except without that cluttered, overrun appearance caused by seven children.<p>

Instead, super organised Aunt Hermione ensured that even with five children under the age of nine running around (or crawling in the case of Baby Hugo) it remained mostly neat. And then there was the library. Victorie loved reading, losing herself in wild adventures on stormy seas or in enchanted labyrinths, not caring if the stories were wizarding or muggle in origin. They were all magical to her.

Aunt Hermione even let her borrow them sometimes to take home and read for herself. But best of all were those icy winter days curled up in front of a roaring fire, Rosie and baby Hugo curled under her arms, Dom and Louis curled around cushions of their own as she read to all of them. On those days it really was one of the best places in the world.


	5. Toy Soldier

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

Written for the Lucky dip challenge on HPFC

Character: Petunia Dursley Prompt: toybox

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><p>"Mine!"<p>

Petunia hurried into the living room in time to see Harry duck a toy soldier. Another one bounced off his forehead as he popped back up behind the couch.

"Diddy, dear, be careful where you're throwing those. You don't want to hit Mummy's good vases."

As Dudley pouted, she hurried over to where Harry was rubbing the bump on his head.

"And you," she demanded sternly, "why were you playing with Dudley's toys?"

"I wasn't….I mean he wasn't using them, so I-"

He ducked as another soldier went flying overhead.

"My soldiers. My toys. You can't use them."

"There there Diddy dumpling, no need to get upset. Here, why don't you go and get a biscuit while we clean up."

She watched as Dudley tottered off to the kitchen before rounding on her scruffy nephew who was trying to sidle out the door. He hesitated under her watchful eye and bowed his head, preparing for the scolding to come.

"You know you're not allowed to play with Dudley's toys. You don't touch his toys, he doesn't touch yours."

"But I don't have any toys, Aunt Petunia," he piped up, then quickly bit his lip and looked down again.

Flummoxed for a moment, as the gesture was pure Lily in trouble, she was distracted by Dudley's yell.

"Mummmmmmmy. I can't get the lid off."

Glancing around the room, she ordered "You're to pick up all of these and put them back in the toybox-neatly mind." Hearing a clatter and crash in the kitchen, she added, "And you can sweep the kitchen floor when you're done."

Leaving him rubbing his head as he scooped up soldiers, Petunia hurried back into the kitchen to make sure Dudley hadn't hurt himself.


	6. Fifteen

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

Written for the Lucky dip challenge on HPFC

Character: Anthony Goldstein Prompt: fifteen

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><p><em>Fifteen<em>, Anthony thought as he stared at the bedroom door that had just slammed in his face. He hadn't been this much trouble at fifteen, surely. Wincing at the sudden blare of loud, grating music now echoing from his son's room, Anthony resignedly threw a silencing charm and walked back downstairs to the living room. His wife, Julianna glanced up from her sewing and said "I take it he's not apologising?"

Anthony just shook his head, too tired to explain, and fairly certain that she had heard most of the loud conversation echoing down the staircase.

Though whether it had been intelligible or not was another question entirely. As a child, Mickey Goldstein had constantly been told to slow down his speech, for most people struggled to follow him after a few sentences. Julianna's brother had wryly commented that he would make an excellent race-caller when he grew up, while Lee Jordan suggested a career as a Quidditch commentator. But a side effect they hadn't anticipated, though had quickly discovered as Mickey reached his teenage years, was how difficult it was to win an argument against someone who could outpace you thirty words to one.

It didn't seem to matter that he had been strictly forbidden not just by his own parents, but by his best friend's parents too, to visit their house while they were travelling for the summer. Nor did it seem to bother him that fifteen was two years before he could legally drink alcohol, for he had muggle cousins who were more than happy to smuggle him a bottle or two. The fact that Louis Weasley was grounded for the next two years after his parents had returned early from France with his elder sisters to find the two boys passed out in the living room surrounded by empty bottles, broken china, and the stained remains of an Egyptian shawl didn't seem to bother him in the least.

After all, he was fifteen, and knew better than any boring adults. A rattling that sounded suspiciously like a window opening caught Anthony's attention. He dashed up the stairs in time to see the tail-end of a Comet 380 disappear over the city lights. Cursing at his uncontrollable son, Anthony dashed outside, grabbing his own broom on the way, hoping to head him off before he was seen by passing muggles.


	7. For want of clean hair

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

For LM Ryder, though I had to make them 2nd years since that was Lucius's last year at Hogwarts

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><p>Severus glared at himself in the mirror, before turning away, disgusted. For nearly two years now, he had been putting up with taunts from housemate and foe alike about his greasy hair. Never one to care about his appearance, he was surprisingly hurt by these attacks. Scowling, he remembered the incident that finally pushed him to the edge. It wasn't the remark-from Lupin of all people, who could hardly talk- about what side effects the grease from his hair would have if it dripped into his cauldron. He was well used to the snide comments in potions from the two desks behind him, and usually had no trouble ignoring them as he and Lily consistently produced the best results, far outstripping the four Gryffindor boys' efforts.<p>

It was the reaction of Lily that had driven him to this drastic action. Rather than glare and turn her back on them as she usually did, Lily had actually giggled. Half a second later she had arranged her face into a disapproving look and told Lupin not to be so horrible, but the damage had been done.

And so Severus began scrounging through potion compendiums, even turning to Lucius Malfoy, who he figured had to be using _something_ on his hair, for a recipe that would get rid of the grease. Malfoy, the 7th year prefect for his house, took pity on him a day later and slipped him instructions copied from one of his betrothed, Narcissa Black's books.

It had not been difficult to get Professor Slughorn's permission to set up a cauldron over the weekend to "practice brewing a few simple things." Slughorn had chuckled merrily, and told him that Severus hardly needed the practice, and that spending all his time in the dungeons would give him pallid skin and greasy hair. Severus restrained himself from rolling his eyes, determined that this was the last time he would hear _that_.

When he returned on Sunday morning, ready to sample his concoction, he double-checked the appearance against the description. It was supposed to be milky white, with a hint of pink swirls as it was stirred. The liquid in his cauldron was a little darker, more pink with hints of red, but probably fine. He had gulped a cup as the instructions said, leaving the rest over a low heat for a second and third dose with lunch and dinner. Three doses would apparently prevent all hair grease and tangles for one to two weeks, though Severus thought with a bit of tweaking he could get it longer.

As he left the dungeons, heading to the great hall for breakfast, he had nearly run into Black and Pettigrew at the foot of the stairs.

"Snivellus," Black said loudly, attracting the attention of the few early risers nearby. Severus had stalked past, ignoring him. Just one more day and he would show him. Then he had spotted Black's wicked grin, and Pettigrew trembling with bottled laughter.

"I hope we caught you in time," Black drawled, "see Peter and I were in the dungeons earlier to grab my potions kit that I left behind, and Pete sort of accidentally tripped over a cauldron in there while carrying some bottles…"

Severus had felt a twinge in his stomach, fear or a side effect, he wasn't sure. Dashing to the closest bathroom, he had barely made it before his churning stomach rebelled. Hoping that he had thrown up the unknown potion, and prevented any side effects, he had gone to rinse his mouth at the sink. As caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, however he nearly choked with surprise. Somehow the potion had worked; his hair was grease-free and silky smooth. It was also a violent shade of fuchsia.

Severus spent the rest of the day hiding in one of the stalls, stomach growling, until after curfew when he was guaranteed not to be seen in the halls. He managed to find an old hooded cloak stashed in the potions store-room and used it to sneak back to his bed unnoticed, where he pored over his books once again, trying to find some way to turn his hair back before 9am tomorrow.


	8. Saying Goodbye

Disclaimer: If you recognize it it belongs to JKR

**Written for the Photo Album challenge on HPFC**

**Prompt: ** A photo of March 27 1963, James and Mummy blowing out the candles.

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><p>It took James less than ten minutes of sitting in the hard wooden chair listening to the ministry man begin his droning recitation to decide that he hated funerals. Kicking his feet against the legs until the glares of surrounding adults became unbearable, James glanced around the room, trying to see if there was anyone interesting there.<p>

Two rows behind him and to the left was old Mister MacMillan who sat on the Wizengamot with his Dad, his coarse white beard bristling over his velvet tartan dress robes. Three seats to his right in the row behind him was a young blonde woman reading a magazine, not even pretending to pay attention, and on the other side of the aisle there were several children. There were two boys about his age, and two older girls, teenagers, all four sitting still and straight, listening to the man at the front like he was telling some fascinating story. James guessed they must be Black relatives, cousins of some sort, just like he was. At the front Aunt Dorea was sobbing silently, Uncle Charlus rather noisily as they listened to the description of their son's short life.

He hadn't really known Thad all that well, James realised as the little man tried to make Thaddeus Potter's Hogwarts years sound interesting. They were both only children, but Thad was nearly twelve years older and didn't have much time for his little cousin. Though that may have been in part due to the frogspawn James slipped in his pillow when he came to visit during his Easter break. Or possibly the switching of his Transfiguration notes with a picture of Merlin the cat. That had been five years ago, nearly, and since then James could only remember seeing Thad half a dozen times, at Christmas twice, and other family dinners and things. This Christmas just gone, James had badgered him into playing one-on-one Quidditch in the back yard, though Thad had yielded after fifteen minutes down eight goals to one.

He had never been much good at flying. If he had practiced more like James did, he might still be alive. After all, even James knew better than flying during strong winds at night, no matter how desperate you were to get home. He sort of wished that Thad had been better at magic; then he would have gotten his apparition licence and not have to worried about the broom when the floo network went down.

James didn't think it was fair to blame the muggles either, like some of the relatives were. Obviously they needed the funny poles and metal strings that ran alongside the roadways, or why would they have them? Besides, it wasn't like the muggles would realise that they posed a risk to fliers, since they didn't know they existed. Really, Thad should have either flown higher, or waited for the bad weather to pass.

There was a sudden rustle and scrape as everyone stood, and James realised that the man had stopped speaking. His mother nudged him gently forward and he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to lead the procession out to the graveyard. Hurrying to the closed oak box, James dodged around the six men who were reaching for the handles. His father was on the front corner nearest him, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before hefting his share of the burden. Uncle Charlus had the other front spot. Behind them were two Black relatives and two school friends of Thad, carrying him on his final journey. Re-settling his glasses, James waited for the nod from Aunt Dorea before starting off. Taking slow measured steps, as he had been instructed, James forced himself not to glance back. He could hear Uncle Charlus wheezing with the heavy load, and privately wondered why they didn't simply levitate it, or at least charm it light.

As they reached the hole in the ground, he watched his father forcibly pry Uncle Charlus's hand from the coffin and pull his younger brother back. Now it was Aunt Dorea's turn, and she did use magic to slowly lower her son to his final resting place. Swaying for a second, she recovered before James's mother could reach her, and drew from her purse her final offering. She kissed the metal device of the intricate cloak pin Thad always wore, before dropping it on top of the coffin's lid and stepping away. Behind her a rough line was forming to place their own offerings. James slipped into the line next to his father, who clutched a chess set, while trying unsuccessfully to comfort a sobbing lady with a framed photograph.

As they neared the front of the group, James could see the casket, half covered now in photographs, small objects and other reminders of his cousin's life. He drew his own offering, a photograph from the Easter break Thad had spent with them nearly five years ago. It was of his fourth birthday, blowing out the candles on his dragon cake. His mother was kneeling beside him, helping him surreptitiously with her wand. At the back of the picture, Thad was laughing. He had charmed the candles to re-light every time James blew them out as payback for the frogspawn. In the end, all of them had been laughing as James made it a game to see how many he could blow out before the first one started again.

As he knelt down to drop the picture, James was suddenly struck with the realisation that he would never see Thad again. He would never teach him how to pass a quaffle properly like they were going to do next Christmas. Thad was never going to sit down and explain basic Transfiguration to him like he had promised to do the next time he visited. He wasn't going away for a week, or a year; he was already gone, forever.

A burning wave forced itself through his chest, and James found himself crying for the first time as he finally understood. He could feel his father's arm around his shoulders, gently tugging him away just like Uncle Charlus. He pulled free of his father's grasp long enough to turn back and drop the photo into the grave, before following him out of the crowd to somewhere quiet where he could remember his cousin in peace.


	9. Never the same again

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR**

****Written for the 24 hours of romance challenge on HPFC,

pairing Ted/Andromeda

I gave myself the prompt **change** (randomly selected by flicking through a book)

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><p>No matter how many times she told herself that this was wrong, she simply couldn't stop. The fact that she was engaged to Lucius Malfoy, the knowledge of what her family would do to her, would do to Ted if they were caught didn't prevent her. She tried to resist, tried to push him away; told him she wasn't interested, told him she didn't care. None of that prevented him from looking her in the eye, his scruffy wheat-coloured fringe flopping over his face, and saying "I don't care."<p>

He could see past her rigid posture and carefully schooled expression of disinterest, as he had always been able to. The first time she called him Mudblood he laughed in her face and told her that she didn't really mean it. Incensed, she had hexed him, and he told her through a face-full of boils that she didn't really mean that one either, and that he accepted her apology in advance.

A year later she had actually apologised, and within another year they were good friends, though she enforced a strict no contact policy whenever her relatives or housemates were nearby. The excuse of prefect rounds dealt with any inadvertent rumours, and as long as she appeared at Professor Slughorn's parties on Lucius's arm, no-one really took notice of her whereabouts at other times. The other Slytherin girls in her year had long resigned themselves to her friendship with Alexandra Smethwyk and the MacMillan twins, and assumed she spent her time with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

The first time they kissed, during rounds in her 6th year following an argument about the best secret passageways in the school, she had called him ten kinds of idiot and ordered him never to do it again. That ban had lasted two days, and she became quite expert in the hidden parts of the school, a fact that stood her in good stead for keeping her little cousin Sirius out of trouble when he started the next year.

Her parents had tried to order Professor Dumbledore to choose someone else when Ted was named Head Boy alongside her. When he pointedly refused, they ordered her to stand down. It was the first time she had specifically refused to bow to the wishes of the family. Lucius had been furious, and he informed her that they would be married within a week of his 17th birthday in November of the following year, and that she would do as she was told once she was a Malfoy.

Determined to have one last year of happiness, she had relented and taken every opportunity to spend time with Ted. Sirius and his little friends helped her arrange a catastrophic incident the day before the Christmas holidays that she, in her Head Girl capacity was forced to stay behind and deal with. Ted too had stayed, and with the damage repaired within two days, she took the daring step of returning to his home to meet his family for the remainder of the break, apparating back to Hogwarts the day before the rest of the students returned.

There had been consequences of that visit, and she quickly discovered that morning sickness was much worse than it sounded in the books. With a great deal of care she had concealed her circumstances from everyone, including Ted, for nearly four weeks before he discovered her crying prior to a prefect meeting. The words he had whispered both terrified and thrilled her; run away, be free of the family, free of the rules and restrictions, free of Lucius bloody Malfoy and his perverted father, free to be with Ted and their unborn son.

When he had knelt at her side and conjured the most obnoxious ring imaginable, she hadn't been able to resist, like she had never been able to resist. In three days time, the night after her final exam, she would become Mrs Andromeda Tonks, and nothing would ever be the same again.


	10. Learning to Catch

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR**

****Written for the Early Childhood Competition on HPFC

**Character: James Sirius Potter**

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><p>James wriggled carefully into a balanced position, took a deep breath, and slowly raised one, then the other hand from his broom.<p>

"Look Mummy, I did it!"

"Good work Jamie," Mummy replied, scooping up a quaffle and mounting her own broomstick, a new Comet 380 nearly identical to James's except for the size.

"Ok, are you ready to catch?"

James nodded quickly, and wobbled for a second before recovering his balance. He carefully watched the red ball all the way to his hands, as he had been taught, and caught it cleanly.

"Got it!" he cried ecstatically, then grabbed at the broom handle as his sudden movement unbalanced him again.

"Well done, but I think it would be best if we practiced one-hand catches. After all that's what we mostly use in the game."

James pouted for a second; he could already do one-handed catches. But he knew he could do it two-handed now, so maybe it was better to get good with one hand first.

Tucking the quaffle under his left arm, he flew a little closer until he was in range, and tossed it back to Mummy. She caught it easily in her off-hand and grinned at him.

"Ok," she said as they passed it back and forth, "I'll give you another ten of these, and then I'll start throwing them wide and you have to fly after them."

James grinned too; he loved that game, though eventually he always missed one. But not today, today he was going to catch them all. From the corner of his eye he could see Al and Daddy on the ground, throwing a tennis ball back and forth. Al wanted to be a Seeker like Daddy, and he was so little that it would be better for him. After all, he was only a year younger than James, and James was nearly two and a half inches taller. Al looked lile Daddy too, with black hair and green eyes. He didn't wear glasses, but the healers said he might have to when he was older. If he grew up like Daddy then he would be the perfect size for a Seeker. James already looked more like Mummy, though everyone else said he looked like Uncle Bill when he was little, only with darker hair. If he grew up like Uncle Bill, he would definitely be too tall for a Seeker.

James liked Chasing much better anyway, though he thought Keeping might be fun too. Teddy, who was nearly fourteen, played reserve Keeper for Gryffindor, and he said it was good fun, though James did wonder how it could be fun when the other team scored and it was your fault. He couldn't wait for Teddy to come visit next. It was only three more weeks until the holidays, and then they could play a proper game, and James would show him how much better he was now, and Teddy could teach him how to do the Slothy roll, like he did during the family game last summer when Uncle George hit a bludger at him.

That had been funny, since Mummy thought she would score, and was really surprised when Teddy blocked it. And then Vicky nearly beat Daddy to the snitch, even though she was only eleven and didn't even play for Gryffindor yet.

"Ready for a big one?"

He looked up to see Mummy throw the ball up really high and far. Mummy had always told him not to fly higher than six feet while he was still learning, but if he just went a little higher…

With a glance back at her, he leaned over his broom and zoomed upwards, laughing with delight as he raised both arms and snatched the quaffle level with the top of the walnut tree. Behind him, he could hear Mummy yelling for him to get down, though she didn't sound really angry, just ekasberated.

A sudden gust of wind caught him by surprise, and he found himself thrown sideways off his Comet Junior. At the last second, he squeezed his eyes shut, dropped the quaffle and grabbed for the handle, feeling his fingers close around solid wood.

Opening his eyes in relief, he looked up to see a walnut branch floating in mid-air, supporting his weight as it slowly lowered him down. On the ground, Daddy had his wand pointed at him, while Mummy was holding his broomstick and really did look angry now. Swallowing a gulp as his feet touched the grass, James hoped she wouldn't confersate his broom for too long this time.


	11. 7 Reasons to Hate Valentines Day

** DISCLAIMER: IF YOU RECOGNISE IT IT BELONGS TO JKR.**

Written for the Anti-valentines challenge on HPFC

Theodore Nott

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><p><strong>Feb 14th 1992<strong>

He doesn't even notice. It's a Sunday, and as per usual he has eaten breakfast and escaped to the library before most of the school is awake. There seems to be more girls giggling than usual, and he mentally declares it the second most annoying sound in history, right behind Goyle's snoring.

When an annoying, cheerful Ravenclaw dumps her books on the other end of his table that night while he is still reading and comments on how much she hates Valentine's day too he gives her a half-confused, half-annoyed glare and escapes to the Slytherin common room.

x

**Feb 14th 1993**

Sweet Merlin, if he didn't already despise the git now….

He glares at his breakfast, mostly to avoid the lurid pink confetti falling around his simple umbrella charm. To his left a pair of older girls are giggling infuriatingly, while Tracey mimics his expression of disgust on the right and pretends to vomit in her cereal when Parkinson starts batting her eyelashes at Malfoy.

When the wing-wearing midget swarm is introduced he bangs his head against the table and wishes for the day to end.

x

**Feb 14th 1994**

The day passes quietly to his relief. Everyone seems to have gotten it out of their systems on the Hogsmeade weekend just past, and for once the ridiculous holiday goes unmarked.

That night someone, and he has his suspicions of a certain tall black housemate looking for payback, charms his textbooks to warble Celestina Warbeck love songs in the middle of the Common Room. All the girls laugh at him as he flees to the safety of his bed and teaches himself a good silencing charm.

x

**Feb 14th 1995**

Ugh, what is it with girls and Valentine's day?

Is it really necessary to charm heart shaped bubbles or transfigure the tables into violent shades of pink? By the time he reaches Arithmancy he is ready to strangle someone. When they are assigned partners for a project and he gets stuck with an overly-cheerful Ravenclaw girl, he seriously considers an unforgivable.

To his amazement, she not only comments disparagingly on the behaviour of her starry-eyed classmates, but remembers saying something similar to him three years ago, and laughing as he scurried away from the scary girl.

x

**Feb 14th 1996**

Oh joy, another Hogsmeade weekend ruined by Valentine's day.

The only advantage he sees is that everyone is at the Broomsticks, or that despicable tea-shop, so the queue at Scrivenshafts is negligible. A pack of third-year girls catches him on the way out and douse him with pink glitter. Several people nearby, other victims, are giving them sour looks as they try to brush the sparkles off their robes.

He transfigures the remaining glitter into leeches while they're not looking and waits for the scream.

x

**Feb 14th 1997**

He only remembers because Cordelia Selwyn hexes Blaise at lunch for not buying her a romantic present. Eventually he takes pity on his housemate and dissipates the conjured cloud of stinging wasps.

Cordelia spends the rest of the day spreading rumours that he and Blaise are a couple, to their mutual disgust. Merlin he hates Valentine's day.

x

**Feb 14th 1998**

For all the years he's known her, she has always treated Valentine's day with contempt. Now that they're sort of together he hopes that she doesn't expect him to do anything for it.

By dinner time, when she has barely spoken a word to him all day, he gives up in disgust and retreats to the library.

When he finds out that the 14th was her mother's birthday, the first since the Death Eaters destroyed her house and killed her parents for hiding fugitives he hates himself all the more.


	12. Cousins

**DISCLAIMER: If you recognise it, it belongs to JKR**

Written for the Photo album challenge on HPFC

**Prompt: **photo ofAugust 2, 1967 - The Black cousins ranged in the drawing room of what is obviously a rich household, though not very brightly decorated. Bellatrix (16)sits in a winged armchair, dark hair spilling down her shoulders and a cool look on her beautiful face. Andromeda (13) sits on a low stool in the opposite corner, book in her lap, long brown braid falling over her shoulder very much like her sister, but starkly contrasting. Narcissa (11) sits before the fire, her skirts spread around her in a pool of find fabrics, pale hair shining like gold and an angelic smile on her face. Sirius (7) perches on the windowsill, looking board and fiddling with a rather delicate-looking glass instrument. Regulus (6) sits between Narcissa and Andromeda, both trying to get his attention.

* * *

><p>"Sirius, if you break that I'll hex your fingers off."<p>

Andromeda glanced up from her book to glare at her irrepressible cousin who gave her a sheepish grin and carefully placed the Starglobe back on top of the bookshelf. It had been a gift from her parents, a reward for two years of top marks, and she didn't want it broken before she could show Alexandra.

"I still think you should have gotten the dress robes. They were pretty," Narcissa sighed as she glided into the drawing room and dropped gracefully to the floor in front of the fire, skirts swirling aside as she sat. Andromeda shared a look of disgust with Bella as she followed their younger sister in and threw herself casually across the armchair, loosing her hair from the restrictive pins she had endured all day.

They had both despised the pink concoction of ruffles favoured by their mother and sister, and Andromeda had barely been able to muffle her laugh when Bella pretended to throw up in them behind the shopkeeper's back. After much pleading her mother had finally caved and agreed that the astronomical model which included all of their stars and constellations was a suitable compromise.

As Cissa went back to describing how pretty the robes would have looked on her, Andromeda tried to focus on her new Arithmancy book. The cover jerked as Bella hooked her foot underneath to raise it where she could read the title, and smirked.

"You know that mother and father don't like you doing Arithmancy."

Andromeda shrugged, rolling her eyes at their old-fashioned opinions.

"It looks interesting, and a lot safer than whatever monster Professor Kettleburn is nursing. Besides it's supposed to be difficult, which gives me at least one class with the intelligent portion of my year."

Bella and Sirius both laughed at this; her sister understood what it was like to be the clever one in a group of morons, and Sirius was already stealing his father's wand and practicing simple charms. He was going to be hell when he got to Hogwarts, and Andromeda was decidedly not looking forward to being in charge of him. Certainly the usually peaceful common room with its soothing green light would not be quiet once he started.

If I don't kill him first, she added silently as she spotted him absently fiddling with her Starglobe again while he stared out the window. The sheeting rain prevented his and Reggie's plans of flying or exploring the woods, leaving the Black heirs trapped inside a house smaller than their own with nothing to do. It was a dangerous combination that always resulted in something being broken, and she was damned if it would be something of hers this time.

As she opened her mouth to admonish him, she was distracted by a clatter to her left where Reggie was examining the shelves. The little boy was seated on the floor now, staring at a music box that he had half-wound as if mesmerised. Andromeda vaguely recognised it as one of Grandmother's wedding gifts, though she and her sisters had learned not to play with any of the old artefacts.

The funny tinkling tune was muffled by several layers of dust, though there was a strange sinister note still audible that she didn't like.

"Hey Reg, what do you have there?"

When he didn't reply she glanced at Narcissa on the other side, who repeated the question. Their little cousin didn't seem to hear them, and when his eye-lids started drooping Andromeda started to worry.

"Accio music box."

They all turned to see Uncle Alphard standing in the doorway, his precious camera in one hand, the now-closed and silent music box in the other. When Reggie gave a groggy "Wha-?" he turned his stern gaze on the rest of the room.

"Perhaps it would be best if things on shelves stayed on their shelves, hmm?"

Andromeda noticed his gaze seemed to be directed towards Sirius, perched on the window ledge, and heard the gentle click as he replaced her Starglobe. One thing they had all learned about Uncle Alphard was that he never stayed angry for long, and sure enough his face cracked a smile as he held his arms out for the two boys to hug him. As he started telling them stories of his most recent trip to China and India Andromeda finally relaxed enough to return to her book. Nothing was going to get broken today.


	13. A day in Hogsmeade

**DISCLAIMER: If you recognise it, it belongs to JKR**

****Written for the photo album challenge on HPFC

Prompt: A photo of April 15 1965 Arthur weasley playing with his nephews on a hogsmeade weekend when his brother came up to visit

* * *

><p>"Uncle Arta, Uncle Arta!"<p>

Arthur barely had time to turn and catch the armful of bouncing three-year-old. Ignoring the chuckles of his friends, he pulled free of the enthusiastic hug and looked his nephew Dorian in the eye.

"And where did you escape from?"

"Daddy's over there," Dorian informed him cheerfully, arm flailing vaguely back towards the main street.

Following the candy-stained finger, Arthur spotted his older brother juggling a baby, somehow keeping hold of eighteen-month-old Eddy's hand, and scanning the crowd for his run-away at the same time.

Settling Dorian more firmly on his hip, Arthur said, "Looks like I'd better help rally the troops."

He left Darius and Benjy laughing, with a promise of meeting up at the Broomsticks later, and called out to Reginald "I've found an escaped goblin, I think it might be yours."

His brother gave him a relieved grin as Arthur traded Dorian for Edmund, the former protesting that he wasn't _really_ a goblin, and that he hadn't _really_ escaped, just sort of wandered a bit.

Eddy was much quieter than his brother, and sucked his thumb continuously as Arthur spoke to him.

"My goodness, how tall you are. And look how red your hair is going."

"I'm taller, and my hair is red too Uncle Arta," Dorian interceded, dangling from his father's wrist now, swinging in wide arcs that pulled Reg slightly off balance.

"It most certainly is," he replied, covering a smile and offering his free arm to the irrepressible lad.

The group managed to find a free out-of-the-way bench, and after Reg threatened a sticking charm, Dorian promised to sit mostly still. This gave Arthur a chance to meet his newest nephew, born five days after he started back at Hogwarts. Little Arcturus, named after their grandfather, much to his vehement disgust, was sleeping peacefully. There was a little bubble of spit at the corner of his mouth as Arthur took him and stroked the fine hairs on the round, pink head, already a reddish-gold colour.

A group of older girls walked past, pointing and sniggering, and Arthur dimly realised that most thirteen-year-old boys wouldn't be seen dead holding a baby. He also realised he didn't care, and ensured Dorian was busy watching some birds before directing an offensive gesture in their direction.

Beside him Reg was fishing out sandwiches and cups, murmuring sheepishly that Glenny had made them since he was still banned from the kitchen for the disastrous birthday breakfast. They happily munched away on ham and cheese and watched the world go by, answering Dorian's continuous questions with ill-concealed mirth until another pack of giggling girls wandered by.

This time Arthur blushed as he spotted Molly in the middle of the pack, her fiery hair, brighter even than his own, braided elaborately down her back. She was sucking on a violently purple lollipop that Juliet was holding, while Vicky and Lou pointed at him, Lou armed as always with her bloody camera. He just hoped that this didn't end up in the school paper.

Reg, with his horrible big-brother perception followed his gaze and asked shrewdly, "The Prewett girl? The one you said was horribly stuffy because she called you weird for collecting batteries?"

Arthur felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck and ears as he looked back down at Arcturus and heard them giggle some more. It took him a few seconds to register Dorian tugging on his sleeve. As his nephew announced, "Uncle Arta, isn't the red-head girl pretty, don't you think Uncle Arta?" loudly enough for half the village to hear, he groaned and dropped his head into his hands, wondering how he was ever going to live this one down.


	14. Pretty

**DISCLAIMER: The wonderful world of HP belongs to JKR. I'm just playing in it. **

Written for the long lost memories challenge on HPFC

Character: Alice Longbottom at age 46

* * *

><p>There are pretty things in the air today, pretty things glow prettily like stars in the sky. Except its day so there are no stars. But there are stars here, only they keep running away. Maybe he can help me catch the stars. We can fly on our brooms to the stars with our little baby.<p>

Where is our baby? I put him in his cot upstairs only five minutes ago, he was sleepy from the cough potion. Where is my baby? WHERE IS HE?

This isn't my room, my house. The curtains are white. I hate white. I tear them down, but a woman makes me stop. Who is she, WHAT IS SHE DOING IN MY HOUSE? WHERE IS MY BABY, MY…

The stars are very pretty. But they're not stars, not really. Maybe Frank can tell me what they are. He's a proper Auror and very good at….Frank? FRANK?

Where is he? Where is my baby? They want him, they want to find my baby. No, they want to find Frank, but he's right here, singing alongside me. Such pretty songs, I never knew I could sing. What do they want then, do they want me to keep singing? I don't know the song they want; I don't know where he is. And they can't have my baby.

The bubbles go pop, pop. I make them go pop, because they don't pop unless I make them. They taste sweet like summer used to taste. But why is that man watching me? I hide my bubbles from him so he can't steal them from me. They tried to steal something from me once, but I wouldn't sing their song.

Why does he stare at me? Frank, make him go away, Frank? Why is he crying? GO AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE! DID YOU STEAL MY BABY?

You look like my baby, but you're a man not a baby. Where is Frank? Where is my house? This isn't my house, why are the curtains…

Pretty, they are pretty with bubbles popped on them. Why are they scolding me? Why is he still staring at me? Does he want me to sing? But I don't know where to find him, so I can't sing the song they want.

Maybe they want you? Did you steal my baby? MAKE HIM GO AWAY! MAKE HIM GO AWAY UNTIL HE GIVES ME BACK MY BABY!


	15. Five Generations of Love

****DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. ****

Written for the Romantic Drabble Challenge on HPFC.

Pairings are: Nicolas/Perenelle, Molly/Arthur, James/Lily, Ron/Hermione, and Teddy/Victoire

* * *

><p>"Please Nellie, don't do this."<p>

She just smiles at him, that crooked smile that wraps about his heart and makes him clay in her hands. He gives no further protest as she pours a second goblet and sits facing him across the table. He swirls his own cup, watching the rainbow hues dance through the pearlescent liquid before meeting her eyes.

"It might not work. It might kill me. Us."

She takes his empty hand in hers and raises the goblet to her lips.

"My dearest Nicholas, if I cannot live beside you forever, then I would rather die beside you together."

They both drink.

XXX

"I can't get it to fit."

The tears are streaming down her face as the white dress slithers from her body, catching on the swell of her stomach that is causing the problem. She turns away from the mirror, hands clenched to stop them shaking, biting her lip to hold back a sob. It's supposed to be her perfect day, and she wants to look perfect for him. Arms wrap around her and she is pressed against his stringy body, his hands stroking her hair, dashing the tears from her face, wrapping protectively around their growing son.

"Have I ever told you that you're the most beautiful woman in the world?"

They charm the dress to fit and the day is perfect.

XXX

"So, would you…er…like to go to Hogsmeade with me?"

She freezes; she thought he'd got over this. He's been so good all year, standing beside her as Head Boy, working hard in class, no more stupid hex wars. When she thinks of him now, she thinks friend, not immature, self-absorbed prat. Why would he ruin it all by going back to asking her out every few seconds. Except that he hasn't, not like the last four years. And there is no accompanying fanfare, no showing off, just a simple question for the first time all year. Her heart flutters a little as she replies.

"That would be lovely James."

XXX

"A son, definitely a son."

She glares at him, arms firmly crossed over her protruding stomach.

"Daughter. No question about it."

He gives her that smug smile, that '_I'll humour your opinion, but I know I'm right_' smile, and she barely restrains herself from another flock of canaries.

"He's a Weasley, it'll be a boy."

"Tell that to Bill and Percy," she replies, and watches his face fall against her logic.

"Look, we could just get them to do the charm and find out. If you want to?"

She smiles and lets him come to her and wrap her in his long arms.

"No," she whispers into his shoulder, "For once I want to be surprised."

Of course she knows she's right and when Rose is born it's her turn to be smug.

XXX

"Do you like it?"

She watches his face closely as he carefully unwraps the delicate glass sculpture. She spent hours poring over the few photos, trying to capture every line, every angle, every motion in her work. Every second is worth it when he runs his fingers gently over the crystal face of his mother, resting them on the sparkling bundle in her arms. He looks up at her, tears coursing down his cheeks as he whispers "Thank you."

She curls an arm around his waist and leans into his shoulder, watching his eyes rove over her creation as his hair cycles through various colours, settling finally on vibrant pink.

Twenty years later it still sits in the centre of the mantelpiece, watching over their family.


	16. Saving Lives

****DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. ****

Written for the Women to Look Up To Challenge on HPFC.

Character: Alice Longbottom Challenge: Character being kickass/amazing

* * *

><p>"DUCK!"<p>

Alice threw herself to the ground as the curse sizzled overhead, taking a chunk out of the wall ahead of her. Without stopping to think she rolled behind the limited cover of an ornately carved chair as a second spell hit the spot she just vacated. From the number of black-cloaked figures she had seen through the window, she estimated that they were outnumbered four to one, though she suspected Benjy, Frank and James would laugh at the odds later. After all, three aurors and the only muggleborn student to pick a fight with Bellatrix Black at Hogwarts and win were worth four death eaters each any day.

Holding her breath, Alice waited in a poised crouch, wand at the ready for the first sign of her immediate attacker. She was rewarded only seconds later when the heavy breathing and brush of cloth on wood gave away the death eater's position. Silently she thanked her combat trainer, old Moody as she dispatched her foe with a wordless stunner. He had drilled them over and over in concealed combat, informing them with his usual abruptness that the chance of an outright one-on-one duel as an auror was almost zero. _Criminals run and hide_, he'd said as he made them duel blindfolded, or in cluttered rooms or mazes of corridors. _To catch them you need constant vigilance_, a fact proven over and over during Order work, where Alice saw most of her action. As a trainee auror she wasn't allowed on any of the fun stuff yet.

She took a moment to remove the mask from the man she had stunned, vaguely recognising him as a Selwyn boy who had been a few years ahead of her at Hogwarts. She magically bound his arms and legs and pocketed his wand, crouching as she peered around the door, listening carefully for signs of the others. Off towards the south end of the building she could hear the sound of a struggle—thuds and crashes punctuated by muffled swearing—that signalled Frank's position. Under pressure he ran his mouth like a sailor, much to his embarrassment and her constant amusement. She found these little traits, these little imperfections endearing; the way his sandy hair fluffed in the mornings before he combed it flat, the band of freckles across his nose, ruining his stately visage, his terrible hay fever in Spring.

A crash from the room next door reminded her of James, and she hurried to help him. A quick glance around the door showed her two black-robed backs in constant motion as they backed her friend and fellow trainee into the corner. He was holding up well, though not quite well enough to counterattack.

Catching his eye over their shoulder, she nodded to the tall one on the left, and they attacked in perfect unison, just like they'd been taught. As she bound them, she watched James run a shaking hand through his hair, where it came away bloody. Half-hidden behind the door was a third body, rigid from the petrifying hex, who James had managed to down before being overwhelmed. She added him to the pile, refreshed the stunners and had a quick glance at the slice behind James's ear.

He gave her a sheepish grin as she healed it, and she guessed that the nearby open cupboard door, rather than a death eater's curse was to blame. Scattered around the floor lay the shattered remains of a beautiful china tea-set, and she winced at the thought of explaining to Sir Wallace the destruction of his property. The old man had been particularly stubborn, insisting that the 'troublesome youths' wouldn't dare come after his young muggleborn son. They had been too late to save the mother, though they managed to get the boy, a third-year Ravenclaw, and his little sister, still two years shy of Hogwarts to safety. The blustering old man had initially refused to leave his precious house and antiques, claiming he'd see the blaggards off with his rifle. After the first few curses flew however, he changed his mind and Remus, who was the best at apparating under pressure, got him out and went for backup.

"Frank's the most senior, I vote we make him explain to the old man." James had apparently followed her gaze and thoughts, and winced himself as he spotted a gorgeous painting of a stream with several burn marks in it. From the angle, they had probably been his. A horrible yell brought them brought them both back to the present and they hurried out the door, covering left and right with practiced ease. Alice spotted a figure hurrying down the hall towards them, and gave a relieved smile as she recognised Frank's solid gait. He skidded to a halt in front of them, and glanced between them as he asked, "Where's Fenwick?"

Alice and James shared a worried look as she replied, "Wasn't he with you?"

A cackle of laughter followed by a series of pops echoed up from the stairwell and they hurried down the hall and around the corner to see Remus, Moody and Caradoc burst through the front door, wands at the ready. About half-way up the marble stairs lay a black-robed body, its head twisted to an awkward angle as the eyes stared sightlessly out from under the mask. Surrounding it were chunks of flesh and blood, a gobbet of intestines dangling over the railings, blood spray dripping from the walls. A foot had rolled down the stairs and come to rest against a coat-stand, and Alice spotted a finger wedged in the carved rose of the banister. It was wearing a silver ring with an enamel blue box, from that ridiculous telly show that Benjy always talked about.

Alice swallowed heavily, choking down the rising nausea as she lowered her wand. Behind her she heard a thud, Frank falling to his knees, losing his stomach in the corner. He would take it badly, she knew, even though Benjy was the oldest of them, he wasn't trained like they were and Frank was supposed to be looking out for him. Except he wasn't the oldest any more. Fighting to keep her voice from shaking, Alice looked down at Moody and whispered, "I guess we should…get what we can of him." The old Auror nodded and drew his wand, conjuring a box, into which he started levitating the pieces.

James started doing the same at their end, leaving Alice free to sit beside Frank and hold him while he cried.


	17. Prejudiced

****DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. ****

Written for the When they were at Hogwarts Challenge on HPFC.

Character:Kingsley Shacklebolt

Warning: contains racial slurs and swearing

* * *

><p>"Kingsley, don't do it. Promise me you won't-"<p>

Kingsley glared at Pete as he was dragged aside outside classroom fourteen. From inside the chatter of the other prefects echoed above Moira's request for quiet, signalling that they had a few minutes.

"Look Shacklebolt, I don't care what he did to your girlfriend during the game, or what he called her; you do not go picking fights with other prefects. Especially not him, not with his family and friends."

He bit back a retort, that Peter Carmichael had never picked a fight in his life because he would take one hit and go crying to mummy, and removed the restraining arm from his shoulder. Despite the two year age difference Kingsley had a good six inches and thirty pounds on his housemate, and easily pushed him away. He didn't care so much about the Quidditch issue; seekers always got fouled the most and they had both been chasing the snitch. Black's knocking her headfirst into the path of the oncoming bludger wasn't all that unusual, especially for a lousy cheating Slytherin. It was the comment as he helped Madam Pomfrey carry her to the hospital wing to fix the broken nose, teeth and cheekbone, the victorious Black surrounded by his Death Eater groupies yelling above the crowd.

"What's worse than a mudblood seeker? A chinky mudblood seeker, cause they're blind as well as stupid. And that's the best Ravenclaw can put on a broom."

He would have punched the pompous prat there and then if Mei hadn't groaned from the shift in his levitation charm. By the time he got her balanced Professor Slughorn was already there, arms around Black and Quick's shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the slur as he congratulated his seeker and captain.

Prescott's call to order echoed through the open door over a muttered comment and laughter, and as Kingsley stepped into the room he could see Black laughing with Antioch Selwyn and Barty Crouch. Selwyn caught sight of him and nudged Black, who grinned and made glasses with his fingers around his eyes as he asked, "Shacklebell, how's your girlie? I didn't really mean to hit her like that you know; didn't want to get filth on my good Quidditch robes."

The Slytherin table erupted into laughter, oblivious to the cold glares of the rest of the room and Prescott's hesitant attempts to quiet them. Forcing down his rising temper, Kingsley swallowed and said in a controlled tone, "She's doing well. Can't wait to see you actually, so she can hex your fucking face off. If I don't do it first."

Black's smile flickered as a small gasp ran around the room. The thought of a fifth year Ravenclaw picking a fight with Regulus Black, who topped his NEWT classes in Defence and Charms, and whose family were affiliated with You-Know-Who was unheard of. The arrogant smirk reappeared as he replied with a toss of his head, "That little mudblood whore take me on in a duel? You're kidding me, right?"

Kingsley lunged forward, until Pete, who had grabbed him at the word whore, swore and dragged him back. Moira, apparently deciding enough was enough, stepped in-between, wand drawn.

"That is ENOUGH! Black, you apologise and keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll have Dumbledore remove you as prefect. Shacklebolt, if you can't keep your temper in check, then you can leave. If I hear of any fights between you, I'll have Professors Flitwick and Slughorn give you detention for the rest of the year."

She glared between them, eyebrows raised until Kingsley gritted his teeth and nodded. He'd have to be clever and plan his payback so that she wouldn't find out. She gave him a nod and Pete released his grip as Moira turned her gaze towards Black, lip curling slightly in disgust.

The Slytherin boy gave her an equally contemptuous look and said, "You don't order me around bitch. Unless you would like me to have my cousin Bella stop by for a chat?"

While none of them had been at school with the oldest Black girl, stories of what she did to those she disagreed with had passed down from her contemporaries to their younger housemates. That, combined with the news reports of a particularly powerful and cruel female lieutenant in You-Know-Who's service made the usually fearless Moira Abbott back down. She closed her eyes, shaking her head as she argued mentally with herself before giving Black one last dirty look.

With a head jerk, she directed Kingsley and Pete to sit, and nodded to Prescott who began stammering through the agenda. Kingsley barely heard a word as he plotted his revenge against Regulus Black and his prejudiced world.


	18. Midnight Vigil

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the Ready...Set...Write challenge on HPFC

Character: Ernie MacMillan A/N the character of Brother Francis is borrowed from Fernwithy. After reading her stories I can't imagine him any other way.

* * *

><p>"It's well past your bedtime you know."<p>

Ernie jumped; he had checked that the common room was empty before starting his vigil to avoid any questions. Squinting into the most shadowed corner he could just make out the wavering outline through the flickering of the dying candles.

"Brother Francis, I-"

The Hufflepuff ghost gave him a smile that said he wasn't going to turn him in and Ernie returned from his half-crouch to the floor. The translucent friar glided over next to him and began absently studying the delicately woven tapestry on the wall as he commented, "Usually we don't have students up this late until at least December, and then it is only the older ones, studying hard as always. You don't seem to be studying?"

Ernie shrugged in reply, not sure that he felt comfortable discussing his rather personal annual tradition with someone several centuries dead. He had in fact brought a textbook with him though it lay unopened beside the golden candle that was nearly half consumed. Gold like her hair had been, like the rest of the family, though that was where her resemblance had ended. She had been dainty for a Macmillan, much smaller than any of their cousins, and her dark eyes were often bloodshot from the illness or the potions she took for it. Some sort of blood disease that hadn't made much sense to Ernie back then; all that he had known was that his beloved little sister was in pain and there was nothing he could do to help. In the end they had sent him away to Grandfather's for a week and he had never forgiven himself for not being there at her side to hold her hand when she lost the battle.

The funeral had been a terrible blur of far too many relatives and family friends staring at the angelic five-year-old's wasted body, wreathed in flowers before they carried her outside and lowered her to sleep. Ernie had had to argue down both parents, his grandfather, and two uncles in order to take his place as one of the bearers. Even at seven he had been big for his age, though no-where near big enough to support even that small portion of the weight, and only his mother's quick feather-light charm had stopped him dropping his corner of the coffin.

And every year since he had stayed up until seventeen minutes past three in the morning on October 9th with a lit candle to remember her. He had taught her her first word (badger) when she was just eleven months old, and had held her hand whenever they visited Diagon Alley, protecting her from all harm. Before the illness she had loved to be pushed on the rope-swing in the old apple tree, and several times he had ran with her over their fields, startling the grazing sheep and horses as they passed by.

A questioning noise to his right made him realise that he hadn't answered the Friar's question. He had done his little ritual in secrecy for the last three years so that his parents wouldn't tell him to go to bed. This year he hadn't wanted to bother his new dorm-mates, his new housemates. After all, they all came from happy, whole families; they would never understand. But perhaps there was someone who would.

He looked up into the honest open face, trying not to stare at the grey bead markings around the ghost's pearly white throat that matched perfectly with the rosary he wore around his neck. The pearlescent eyes stared comfortably back, inviting him to speak whenever he was ready.

Taking a deep breath, Ernie began to talk.


	19. Flying High

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the ready...set...write challenge on HPFC

Character: Ron Weasley

* * *

><p>"With the Cannon's fly-ing HIGH!"<p>

Ron laughed as he collapsed into his favourite old battered armchair, Rosie mimicking his actions as she flopped on the couch opposite. Her Cannon's hat was starting to slip from the pins that held it to her untameable red hair and the cannonball painted on her face was smudged around the edges as she picked up the nearest book and flipped to her bookmark, making sure Hugo and Hermione's stayed in place.

There had been a few rows over lost places in half-finished books until Hermione had come up with the solution and produced half a dozen personalized bookmarks for each of them. Ron recalled using his once or twice, but he didn't read like the rest of the family: a chapter of this book here, ten pages of this other one there; pause to go look something up in a history book and get distracted for an hour or two reading about the witch trials. It was a part of his children he could never hope to understand, just like Hermione and Quidditch.

Running footsteps brought him back to the present as Hugo raced through the door, arms outstretched, making 'wings' with his orange and black scarf clutched in each hand. His face—quartered orange and black paint—was also smudged and Ron made a mental note to tell George that they needed to look at the face-paint formula. It had been a popular seller, coming in all the team colours with ready to charm decals and easy clean wipes that their mother had helped design.

"Hugo, what have I told you about running in the house?"

Hermione's admonishment was followed in person before Ron had a chance to act and he grinned sheepishly at his wife as she leaned on the doorframe, her ink-stained hands planted firmly on her hips. She shook her head, a smile playing around the edges of her lips as she looked between the three of them, and asked, "I take it the Cannons actually won?"

"We didn't just win mummy, we SMASHED them!" Hugo piped up from beside the fireplace where he had finally flopped next to old Crookshanks.

"Four hundred and fifty to seventy, though for a five-hour game it could have been a lot more. They were both playing really defensively, and Kirkland Drake missed about ten easy goals in the first hour," Rosie added without looking up from her book.

Ron couldn't help but grin as he watched his wife's eyebrows shoot up and her lips purse as she stifled a laugh.

"And how is the international arrest treaty going?" he asked as he patted the armrest, hoping that she would get the hint and take a break from the torturous document she had been working on for the last three weeks. She gave him an exasperated look and shooed Rosie off the couch instead, patting the now empty seat beside her and he joined her, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they watched their daughter curl up on the other side of the cat.

"You don't want to talk about the treaty and neither do I," she murmured softly into his ear as they contentedly watched their children lying by the fire. Ron wasn't sure what he was going to do when they left for Hogwarts; he was so used to having them around that the thought of not spending weekends trialling new Wheezes with Hugo or analysing Quidditch statistics with Rosie over breakfast was simply strange. Still they had one more year of normality before everything changed, and he'd just have to make it a good one.


	20. Imperius

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

Written for the One line competition on HPFC

Challenge: use the first sentence "The water looked deep and inviting." Character: Mary MacDonald

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><p>The water looked deep and inviting. So perfect for swimming, in fact she wants nothing more than to go swimming right now. A hesitant voice at the back of her brain whispers urgently; it's <em>winter, it's cold, you're wearing clothes.<em>

_**But that's no problem **_the other voice replies. The strong voice, the good voice. _**Take off your clothes, there's no-one watching. And it's warm, not cold. Look at the water, you really want to go swimming. Just take off your clothes. **_

She hesitates—it's the middle of the day, a Saturday, by the lakeside. Why isn't there anyone around?_**But that doesn't matter because all she wants is to take off her clothes and dive into the wonderfully cool water. Just take off her clothes. **_

That's easy.

The stifling cloak comes off first; why is she wearing her winter cloak when it's so warm? _Because it's winter_ cries the other voice and she hesitates again. But it's not winter, it's summer and it's hot and she wants to go swimming in the cool deep water. The robe follows, then the gold and red tie and the stuffy grey blazer. As she sits to remove her shoes and stockings she shivers from the cold. _**But it's not cold, and you want to go swimming so take off your clothes.**_

One more look at the water and she simply can't resist. Her phantom t-shirt falls to the ground, one dark sleeve trailing in the lapping water, but that's not important. As she reaches for a bra-strap a strange sound echoes behind her, almost a giggle and a sharp smack, flesh being struck. But it is drowned out because she _**NEEDS TO TAKE OFF HER CLOTHES AND DIVE IN NOW!**_

She is down to her skirt when a distant echoing voice interrupts her.

"Mary, MARY! What are you doing?"

She tries to ignore it, push it away, but now there is a war in her mind, it's hot, it's cold, it's…..

Suddenly wintertime and she is topless by the black lake, the icy water sloshing gently over her toes. She gasps and stumbles backwards just as Andrea reaches her. She had never got along with the Head Girl, who is stuffy and pompous and from a many-generation pure blood family, but she is glad now for the comforting arm and the conjured robe around her shoulders.

Over her shoulder she hears an argument break out and turns to see that creepy Slytherin Mulciber and his little mates smirking at Dylan Pendleton and Abbey Morris and young Professor Sprout. The words "Confundus charm," "practicing," "accident," and "got in the way," echo over the snow-dusted grounds as Andrea tries to lead her away. The cronies are all nodding, Rosier, the little Crouch brat who tags along with them, Lily's Sev who looks almost bored with the whole thing. When she realises what they must have seen, have done to her she is able to escape Andrea's restricting arm long enough to empty her stomach, her body trembling from shame and anger as much as the cold. The tears feel hot on her face and her knees buckle when she tries to stand. When a fuming Dylan scoops her up into his arms to carry her back to the tower and safety she shies away from his touch, then begins sobbing into his chest, hating herself for being so weak and helpless.


	21. Part of That World

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

Written for the Relate challenge on HPFC

Characters: Sirius and Mulciber

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><p>"Go shut your face you prejudiced wanker."<p>

Even Sirius could hear the slurring of his words that suggested he was drunk. Perhaps even more drunk than Mulciber, whose parents were more restraining and watchful so that he had to sneak his glasses of alcoholic punch. Sirius had never bothered with sneaking; it just wasn't his style. And when he walked blatantly up to the bowl and scooped himself out a glass at his thirteenth annual Black Family Christmas Party all he got was a few raised eyebrows and a disapproving look from Father. Uncle Alphard had even laughed and raised his own, rather larger glass to the heir of house Black.

Two years on he didn't even get that. As he raised his glass to his lips—his sixth? seventh? he lost track a while back—he saw Mulciber lurch at him from the corner of his eye. The Slytherin boy was about his height, but nearly half again his weight, most of it muscle from the Quidditch pitch. Still, Sirius felt he didn't do too badly, landing a sweet punch to the eye and a solid knee in the stomach before they were magically dragged apart. He could feel the blood trickling from his nose and split lip as they were frog-marched from the magically expanded ballroom for a yelling by their respective mothers, and couldn't resist sticking his foot out to trip the bastard as they were steered through the door.

The bigger boy snarled and fumbled for a wand that wasn't there; ever since the Christmas following his sorting into Gryffindor the parents had taken all the children's wands at these sorts of events. Though Sirius wasn't sure if he would be any good at duelling right now. His head was reaching that fuzzy stage where tomorrow would bring memory gaps and punishing headaches.

As he zoned out his mother's shouts of "good for nothing trouble-maker", "failing to uphold the family name" and "disreputable _Gryffindor_," he considered what his life might be like had his sorting gone to plan. It had taken a great deal of negotiation and wheedling to stop his mother withdrawing him from Hogwarts and packing him off to Durmstrang to 'ensure his proper education'.

At first Sirius had been equally delighted and a little perturbed by his House. He had always hated the restrictiveness of the pureblood society he had been raised in, and despised the thought of spending his free hours with his older cousin Narcissa, overbearing, violent Mulciber, and that Oberon cow and her repulsive older sister who wanted to marry into the family. But when he went to write his first History essay and realised Avery wasn't there to reel off a hundred useful facts, or when he discovered that the only times he saw Drommy was across the hall at dinner he sometimes felt a little wave of loneliness. He actually missed talking to Elwick Donnovan and Larry Quick, though the latter's shock sorting into Ravenclaw had caused similar family rumblings to Sirius's.

The feeling had lasted less than a month, and now he couldn't imagine not living with James, Peter and Remus. They were brothers more than best friends, especially Prongs, who knew and understood him far better than Reg ever tried to. Yes, he was glad he didn't have to share a confined space with Mulciber's temper tantrums and _Snivellus_.

When Mother directed him to apologise to the gathered guests for causing a scene he muttered the words with a glare and took the opportunity to try and crush Mulciber's fingers. When they stepped apart, both massaging their fingers, Sirius headed straight for the punch-bowl, ignoring Reg's determined tug on his robes as he attempted to drown out the remainder party the only way he could.


	22. We Will Remember Them

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

Written for the First War challenge on HPFC

Character: Fabian Prewett

Inspired by the ANZAC day service I attended._ Lest we forget_.

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><p>He knelt, oblivious to the mud seeping through his dress robes to drop the rose onto her coffin. He could feel the icy coolness of a tear running down his face and quickly stood, swiping his eyes on his sleeve before moving over to the other casket. This one was oak, the lighter wood matching its occupant's fair hair and wand wood like the mahogany matched hers. He closed his eyes against a memory of his fingers running through those auburn waves, her laugh as she curled her body against him, always so carefree and happy. Both of them had been careless in the end, though they had gone down fighting, killing two and wounding another badly enough to prevent his escape.<p>

Walt had still been alive when Fabian found them; wand trained on Arturo Greengrass, preventing his escape with the last of his strength until someone answered the call, his other arm wrapped protectively over his sister's body. She had been smiling, revelling in the glorious death in battle that she had always wanted. Marlene had never been one to grow old or waste away. She had told him once as they lay side by side watching the sea of stars flicker above that she would die young while fighting. He had joked at first that that was the Gryffindor way until she looked at him with those serious amber eyes and sad smile and he realised that she _knew_. He and Walter shared a room for seven years and even the most sceptical of them had to admit that youngest McKinnon boy had a seer's gift. Of course he would share what he saw with his beloved sister, only a year older and so completely unafraid of anything; even her own death.

Walt hadn't seen his own death though; divination was an imprecise art after all, and his alternately manically wild and sombrely introverted friend had died in his arms, whimpering in pain as his ruptured organs spilled out of his abdomen. At least her end had been quick and clean.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, fingers twitching towards the wand in his belt.

"I'd like to see them try," his brother murmured in his ear, his hand squeezing gently to calm him as it had always done. Gideon was one of the few people who knew about him and Marlene, who understood that she was more than the sister of his friend, more than just his fellow Order member. Off to the side of the double plot lay the headstone that would soon stand guard over their bodies. Simple marble, names and dates and the words _And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith_.

He vaguely recognised them as quotes from the bible; Walt often read a few verses at night before bed and Marlene had dragged him along to a Christmas service only three weeks past. They were one of the few pureblood families that kept faith with the church, and it was times like this that Fabian could understand why. It was nice to think that they had gone on to a better place, a happy place where there was no fighting or violence, no more children being tortured or families disappearing, no more war.

They had died as heroes, fighting for the righteous cause, dying to save lives at the cost of their own. He whispered a choked goodbye and fled to a secluded part of the cemetery to sit and cry until her voice whispered in his mind to be strong and keep fighting on. As he returned to the crowd and bowed his head to the prayers he hoped that when his time came to stand and fight and die he would do no less than them. He would make her proud.


	23. What life is this

**discalimer: anything you recognise belongs to JKR**

Written for the one hour challenge on HPFC

Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa prompt: stench

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><p>The stench was almost unbearable, perhaps made worse by the proximity and sight of the bodies. Her first thought was a fleeting foolish one, the girl she had once been disgusted by the fact that they would never get the red stains off the white marble. She choked down the bile, the disgust for herself and the terrible fear that someday soon those bodies would be her, Draco, Lucius and kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, hoping that the Dark Lord was finished with his punishments for now.<p>

She dared not risk a glance at her son though she knew he would be clenching his wand as he fought his own demons, trying not to show fear or revulsion for what he had been forced to do. Her gaze uncontrollably wandered towards the nearest face and she bit down on her already bleeding lip, the taste of blood pops filling her mouth as she caught the sob.

She had known Kendrick Scabior at Hogwarts, two years below her in Slytherin. He had had an appallingly obvious crush on her in her sixth year, the year she became engaged to Lucius who on several occasions hexed the younger boy for staring at her too long or sitting nearby at dinner. She had been boredly amused by the whole thing at the time, giggling about it with Helen and Tessie as they read his rather pathetic attempts at secret love-notes. He had been a poor, stupid boy who tried for things far out of his league; he played with fire and got burned.

She didn't remember him being particularly talented at anything, a follower even then, tagging along with Abe Greengrass and Davey Wilkes, pushing around the younger mudbloods and muggle-lovers as if it made them tough. Lucius had never had any time for any of them, though she remembered seeing Wilkes at meetings with the Mark on his arm during the last war.

He had died too, duelling four Aurors after being too slow to escape the anti-apparition spells. Lucius and Rabastan were nearly caught too, though she was not supposed to know any of the facts about that war. A killing curse to the heart, quick and clean. Nothing like what poor stupid Scabior and his friends got. Nothing like the mental scars her son would now bear.

It had taken her forty-two years of well practiced self-control to prevent her throwing herself before the Dark Lord and begging him not to use Draco for that task. She had known that all it would achieve was more pain and suffering for them all. In the end Bella had finished the other two, making their deaths as excruciating and prolonged as she dared in revenge for losing the Master's favour and suffering his wrath.

They had been forced to watch the entire affair though, a reminder of their fate should they fail again. Even her momentary hesitation and protective clasp on her son's wrist had been enough to earn her one bout of the Cruciatus Curse. Lucius received the same when he pleaded for the Dark Lord to leave her be. The Dark Lord was clever though and cooled his wrath enough to remember the crueller punishment available to him that would make all three of them suffer. Pretending to be proud while their son was forced to turn torturer.

Bella still considered it an honour to kill at _his_ command. Narcissa sometimes wondered what had happened to the bright, vivacious and utterly wonderful girl her sister had once been. When growing up she had always known that if there was a problem Bella would take care of it, if she was sad Bella would make her smile. Drommy had said once that Bella scared her, or at least the thing she was turning into did. Narcissa had been horrified that her sister would say such a thing. After all, wasn't Bella the perfect one who kept them all safe?

But that girl was long gone now, every trace forced out by the ravages of Azkaban and the warping powers of the Dark Arts. Narcissa had never been able to cast an unforgivable, not enough hate. No desire to directly cause another living thing pain, even a filthy mudblood or muggle. The only weapon she had killed with was poison, and even then only once, though it had been a near thing with the Weasley boy. The one that had been in their house only hours before, prisoners at their mercy. She had prematurely celebrated in her head, now that they had Potter and his friends that the war would be over and she could go back to her normal life.

But they could never go back, not now.

As the Dark Lord dismissed them she stole a glance at her son's ashen face. For so long he had wanted to prove himself to his father, to the Death Eaters that he was one of them. She had tried to protect him, stop him, tell him of the cost, but he hadn't believed her then. She would happily bet what remained of their Gringotts vault that he would choose otherwise now. Even as a young child he had hated being in pain and had hated seeing others suffer when there was no-one around to see his weakness.

The one saving grace was that he had not been ordered to torture her or Lucius. Not yet.

She was honestly not sure what he would do if the situation arose. Would he refuse and suffer the Dark Lord's wrath himself? She wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the alternative. What if Lucius was ordered to torture him? or her? The Dark Lord, like Bella, like Greyback seemed to enjoy the suffering of others. They were getting bored of merely causing pain.

She wondered what life would be like after….

The Dark Lord would be a mighty and cruel ruler; he would make those he deemed unworthy suffer and let those in favour live. But what sort of life would it be knowing that at any moment one might fall from grace and become the victim. Of course if the other side won there would be no redemption either.

Her only hope was a miracle that would allow her to keep her husband and son alive and relatively sane.


	24. Where I Belong

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. AU**

For LM Ryder. It will make more sense if you've read my other Marauder-era stories.

Also, to those who read and review regularly, you're welcome to place fic requests , though I only write Canon or Highly Plausible AU (like this one) and I may or may not write it if inspired.

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><p>"It really doesn't suit you, you know. You would do so much better in-"<p>

_I don't want to hear it_, Sirius thought at the hat with as much force as he could_. I'm a Black, it's where I belong_.

"Are you sure?"

He clamped down on the fleeting thoughts of freedom, catching on the memory of his cousin Bella grabbing his arm just as he got on the train and reminding him of the consequences if he failed.

_I'm sure_

"In that case it had better be SLYTHERIN!"

The table second from the right applauded loudly as he slumped in a seat next to Randall Avery. The small wiry boy who Sirius had known practically all his life grinned at him before turning back to watch Jacob Bones cautiously pick up the hat. As far as Sirius was concerned it didn't matter who was sorted where. Anyone he would be friends with he already knew from various gatherings and parties over the last eleven years.

Glancing up the table as they applauded Fiona Delaney joining them, he managed to catch his cousin's eye. Drommy was Head Girl this year, engaged to Lucius Malfoy who she despised almost as much as Cissa loved him. At least it would be fun to see her around and stir her up. She turned in profile to watch the next student in line—a girl he didn't recognise with fiery red hair and violet muggle shoes showing under her robes—and Sirius was struck by how much she looked like Bella.

The reminder of his cousin's chilling words struck him again and he decided to stare at the table instead. He had almost escaped on-board when her arm had snaked up and caught his collar. He tried to duck free but she held on, wrenching him around so that he had to look her in the eyes, those same Black grey eyes that stared at him out of the mirror. The words had condemned him to a fate he had fully planned on avoiding.

"You will make our family proud, do you understand?"

He had tried again to squirm free, pouting as he replied, "I'll do what I want. I don't want to be a Slytherin."

She had dragged him closer so that her whisper didn't carry to the nearby stragglers clambering aboard.

"You know how angry your mother will be if you are not in Slytherin."

He started to shrug, say that she couldn't hurt him when he was at Hogwarts when she continued,

"And you know who she will take it out on with you not there."

Reg. Poor defenceless Reggie who cried when Sirius kicked Kreacher or when Father yelled or Mother lashed out. Sirius always made sure to take the blame and the punishment when he could because he was older and stronger and it was his job to protect his little brother. But now that he was gone there was no-one to stand between Reg and Mother's wrath.

So he swallowed his daydreams of freedom and happiness and met her eyes freely as he whispered back "I will do what is expected."

And when he passed the compartment with three fun-looking rowdy boys he took a deep breath and kept walking until he found Randy and Larry Quick sitting with their Slytherin siblings.

~xXx~

"Sweet Merlin, does he ever shut up?"

Sirius glared at his "partner" for potions as he muttered to his friend, "Just murder me now, please."

Randy laughed as he continued back to his cauldron with a fist-full of ginger leaves, clapping Sirius's shoulder sympathetically on the way past. For some unknown reason their head of house Professor Slughorn had forced them to work with a different partner to usual, and due to the uneven numbers he was stuck with James bloody Potter, the most conceited muggle-loving git in existence.

"Are you done with the aloe vera stalks yet?"

"Nearly, there's no rush," the bespectacled boy called back from where he was leaning on the desk of his two little buddies, talking and fiddling with his wand instead of crushing ingredients like he was supposed to be doing.

As Sirius watched, Potter wolf-whistled the ginger mudblood that Snivellus cosied up with and got a sharp retort in reply.

"You shouldn't let her talk to you like that," he muttered as Potter finally handed over the ground stalks, "Even a blood-traitor like you shouldn't take crap from a jumped-up mudblood."

Sirius smirked as Potter's irritatingly cheerful demeanour dropped and reached for his wand. He'd been itching for a good fight for weeks.

~xXx~

When he sees her behind the statue _kissing_ the Head Boy, who he knows is a mudblood, he can't believe his eyes. She is his cousin, his favourite cousin, and she definitely knows better. If Lucius found out he would kill her.

She spots him and explains, and he promises not to tell because at least one of them should be happy and free.

~xXx~

"What's the matter Snivellus, lover's tiff?"

The words echoed throughout the entrance hall as Mulciber stormed off towards the common room, shoving Snivvy out of the way. Sirius snuffed a laugh at the nickname—his nickname that had apparently made its way to Gryffindor—as his greasy-haired housemate drew on Potter. Potter's little rat-faced tag-along tried to step in and block the curse but tripped over his own feet and fell, sprouting a variety of tendrils from his face. Potter responded with a tickling charm that left Snivvy wheezing and Sirius was tempted to leave him to suffer. But he was a Slytherin, and Slytherins stick together. Resignedly he drew his wand and muttered to the gasping boy as he passed, "I hope you realise that I'm not doing this for you."

~xXx~

It's the annual Black Family Christmas party and he'll drink if he wants to. Through his alcohol-induced haze he hears Mulciber start up the mudblood jokes again.

"How many mudbloods can you fit in a broom-cupboard? Depends on how good your reductor curse is."

He smirks into his punch. After four and a half years at Hogwarts his childish beliefs about mudbloods being people have been fairly well doused. The two upstart, opinionated Gryffindor girls that he had to share Potions and Arithmancy classes with had seen to that.

Reg tugs his sleeve and implores him to put down the drink and he lets his little brother fuss over him as always. He can't stand Mother's violent moods or Father's droning lectures about blood purity, but Reg is the one part of his family that he will always love, though he'll only say it out loud when he's this drunk.

~xXx~

He's sixteen years old when he first meets _him_. The man, though with those waxy features and red-lit eyes he's not even sure about that, has an aura of powerful purpose that is overwhelming. There are five of them in the room; Randy Avery and Warrick Mulciber are his age, Willy Quick and Parry Warrington a year older. Lucius wanted to bring along Snivelly but Sirius put his foot down and pointed out that the greasy git was still puppy-dogging after his mudblood girlfriend.

The words that are spoken are terrifyingly exhilarating; change, freedom, purity. Sirius doesn't care about those really. Sure mudbloods are lesser, but there are equally bad specimens of humanity that are halfsies or even pure blood. What catches his attention are the powerful spells and the promise of a good fight. That's something he is willing to sign up for.


	25. Virtues and Sins

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

****More romantic drabbles, this time written for the 10 pairings challenge on HPFC. I gave each pairing a sin or virtue as a prompt.

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><p><strong>Rowena Ravenclaw- Godric Gryffindor, envy<strong>

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><p>The death of his childhood sweetheart had hardened his heart against love and his students filled the gap left by a lack of children, or so he said.<p>

There had been a time when Rowena thought something might be possible between them but he had turned away, still shamed to betray the sixteen-year-old girl that haunted his memories.

Which was why she couldn't understand his treatment of Halbard, the glint of envious hatred in his usually merry eyes. Certainly the boy had been one of her students but he was a grown man now, able to make his own choices, old enough to fall in love and give her the child she craved.

Godric had had his chance, he chose his path. She would not let him spoil her happiness as well.

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><p><strong>Albus Dumbledore - Gellert Grindewald, pride<strong>

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><p>Pride cometh before the fall.<p>

And never was it truer than now, he thought, as met the eyes of his opponent for the last time. An arrogant, cruel man, whose lust for power had brought this about.

Yet beneath the mask of hatred and evil, there was still a glimpse of the charismatic youth, utterly fearless, full of grand ideas, that he had once been. And that, he realized as the tears coursed down his cheeks and into his auburn beard, was why he still loved him

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><p><strong>Titus Nott - Fiona (Donnavan) Nott, wrath<strong>

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><p>She's not like the first one. The first one was demure and loyal, sickly and dead before providing him with an heir. The one duty she failed in. He had cared for her in a way; she ran his house well and he actually enjoyed her silent company in the evenings.<p>

The new girl was so much younger, only eighteen on her wedding day, fresh from Hogwarts. She gave him the son he needed, but was otherwise a poor wife. She was quiet, but it was that sly, secretive quiet that so many Slytherin girls had. They plotted behind their husband's back, took interest in things that were not their business.

In the end he is not surprised to discover her affair with a young handsome muggle.

His son is five now, no longer needs his mother. Titus no longer needs his wife, or her filthy lover. She will learn the cost of her betrayal, he will see to that himself.

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><p><strong>Remus Lupin – Nymphadora Tonks, charity<strong>

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><p>There was no point trying to make her see sense, he realised, when she appeared again at his door for another round. She said she didn't care about his problems, that she saw beyond them to the man underneath. He knew she was simply blinded by her image of him—the secret hero inside of the troubled beast, just like her fairytales.<p>

He won't accept her misguided affections, her charity love. Really he's doing her a favour by staying away and she'll thank him for it in the end.

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><p><strong>Charlie Weasley – Nymphadora Tonks, lust<strong>

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><p>He's not sure if it's the idea of her being able to change into whatever she wants—whatever he wants, in his dreams—that makes him desire her so badly.<p>

She is popular in their year, her easygoing manner gives her lots of friends from all four houses. Lots of male friends, who possibly dream of the same things he does.

Perhaps that's why he goes off chasing dragons. It's the only way to escape the dangerous fantasies of one of his best friends.

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><p><strong>Cedric Diggory - Cho Chang, justice<strong>

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><p>"Why did you offer a re-match? Just because it's Potter doesn't mean he gets to replay his losses, regardless of dementors."<p>

He shakes his head and mutters "Ravenclaw. It shows," earning a playful punch to the shoulder.

"I would have done the same for you, you know," he tells her honestly, "Though I wouldn't have bothered for Malfoy."

She gives him that wry smile that stops him from thinking clearly and says, "What, no justice for Slytherin? You would Ced. You can't help it, you're just too nice."

He smiles back; the nice guy always wins in the end, right?

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><p><strong>Anthony Goldstien – Julianna Morris (OC), faith<strong>

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><p>He's practically given up on his faith—after the seventh year from hell he seriously struggles to believe in a loving God—but it's his cousin's Bat Mitzvah and he does have the evening off from his Auror training. Beccy has invited her entire class and teacher to the party, and most of them have turned up.<p>

The teacher is young and very pretty, only three years on the job and entirely fascinated about everything. He almost slips several times and mentions magic, lost in her dark eyes as he reverts to half-forgotten childhood lessons to explain the fine points of the religion.

He leaves with her phone number and a quick prayer of thanks for putting her in his path.

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><p><strong>Colin Creevey - Luna Lovegood, courage<strong>

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><p>Courage was always a Gryffindor trait in his mind. The bold, the brave, the chivalrous, the meat-headed stubborn and loyal.<p>

So when he sees Loony—Luna Lovegood politely telling a pair of seventh-year Slytherin boys to stop tormenting the crying first-year he's a little impressed. When she disarms Montague, ties the git's tongue in a knot and colours his robes bright pink Colin decides he's in love. And he is so glad he has his camera handy.

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><p><strong>Astoria Greengrass - Draco Malfoy, hope<strong>

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><p>"Why do you keep following me?"<p>

"Because you need me to."

He seems stunned by her answer, and she momentarily regrets saying it. She could have told any lie, that she is fascinated by the things he has been forced to do, that she loves his silver-blonde hair, that she needs help with her Potions homework. Well, none of those are lies, but they aren't the complete truth either.

When she looks at him now, curled defensively in a corner of the Library, shunned by the rest of the school as he studies for his NEWTs, all she sees is a lonely boy without hope of redemption.

She can help him with that.

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><p><strong>Scorpius Malfoy - Bryony Zabini (OC), greed<strong>

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><p>"You think I'm some galleon-digging whore like my grandmother?"<p>

"No, I-"

He ducks the first hex and grabs his shield cloak to deal with the others as he tries to placate her. From what he has heard from his parents, Bryony's temper is something she has inherited from that relative and the easiest way to deal with it is to let it burn out.

Eventually she falls sobbing into a chair and he warily reaches out and rubs her shoulders.

"It's not like we have money anymore. But I do love you if it helps."

Apparently it does.


	26. Brothers

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the character one hour challenge on HPFC

character: Regulus Black prompts: truth, great hall

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><p>It had started out like so many of their other arguments, an innocuous comment or attempt at regaining the fun banter they had enjoyed as children, misinterpreted as an attack on the other. He knew he was sometimes guilty of this, taking what he later realised was a joke as another attack on his beliefs or personality. In these cases he usually tried to apologise, though more often than not that started a whole new argument, with Sirius believing that his apology was really a sneaky way to prove that he was really in the right.<p>

Sometimes he wondered how Sirius managed to avoid being in Slytherin. Oh yes, on the outside he was bold and daring, negligent about the rules, willing to pick a fight and stand his ground. He was also very good at getting people to like him and to do what he wanted. A real charmer, a gift Regulus envied terribly.

He tried so hard to be the sort of person people just liked and admired. He was rarely disagreeable (Sirius and his friends were the one exception), mostly did as he was told, just….tried to be that perfect son, that perfect student, that perfect friend. But it was never enough.

He was a good and dutiful son, his mother occasionally said so in between the times she was yelling at Sirius, arguing with Sirius, duelling with Sirius. Father rarely spoke to either of them, but when he did it was to Sirius: don't get into so much trouble, stop associating with mudblood filth, no more contact with your disowned cousin. And all the while Regulus sat in the corner being quiet and dutiful and completely ignored.

One day he had decided he'd simply had enough, and when Mother and Sirius started hollering about muggle inventions polluting wizarding society he spoke up to say that he didn't really mind cars or motorbikes. Mother had slapped him and sent him to his room, frog-marching him past his gaping brother. The next night Sirius looked to him to back him up on a point, even smiled like he used to before he messed up their perfect world by being sorted into Gryffindor. But Reg wasn't strong, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his roast pork and tried not to cry at the sneer of contempt he saw from the corner of his eye.

Today's argument seemed different somehow, though. Usually they yelled at one another for an hour or two, Sirius pacing madly around the room slamming his fist into the wall for emphasis. On rare occasions wands were drawn and sparks flew to match their tempers, but no real harm was ever done. Eventually Sirius would get bored and leave, slamming whatever door was closest on the way out and the silence would echo between them for a day or two before it all happened again.

This time the topic was werewolves, and whether or not they should be treated like other people. Regulus hadn't ever had a reason to think Sirius would care one way or another about the issue; certainly he had never said anything before about it. He had intended the idea of using werewolves as guard-dogs to be amusing and fantastical, a story to pass the hours on Christmas Eve. Great lords in ages past who needed to move chests of jewelled treasures could do so under the light of the full moon, his human servants chained to the casket suddenly becoming monstrous beasts when attacked. Many would fall to the wizarding outlaws seeking to waylay them, but they would protect their master's valuables to the bitter end, dying for a cause far above their station.

For some reason Sirius snapped at him that it wasn't funny, and had stormed from the room, leaving the handful of younger children they were supposed to be looking out for staring. When Reg had gone after him he had snarkily commented that he wanted nothing to do with anyone who thought that people could be divided into lesser and greater classes.

When Reg saw the open bottle of wine in his brother's hand he knew that continuing the argument was a bad idea, but his curiosity got the better of him for once. Haughty disdain usually got a response of some sort, and his inquiry of whether Sirius wanted to invite Kreacher to Christmas Dinner too earned him a snarl and a hex of some sort that his seeker's reflexes barely avoided. His duelling practice with cousin Barty had paid off, and he was able to deflect the next three and get a decent head-start out of the room.

Now, crouched behind a clothes press in one of the spare rooms, he wondered how it had come to this. Why would Sirius care about werewolves when he so openly disregarded goblins, house-elves and other lesser creatures? He briefly wondered if one of Sirius' Gryffindor buddies was one, but dismissed the idea. No-one would ever let a dark creature like that onto school grounds, not even muggle-loving Professor Dumbledore. One of their siblings, maybe? As far as he knew, Potter and Lupin didn't have any relatives at Hogwarts. The other one had a cousin in Ravenclaw who played reserve chaser, but no-one close. Not that he had stalked them or anything, he told himself sternly as he waited for the thumping footfalls to pass. Not that he had found every scrap of information he could about them, spoken to everyone in their year about them, trying to work out what they had that would make Sirius turn his back on his real family.

The truth was, he wasn't sure when exactly he had lost his brother. It wasn't during that terrible year that Sirius was away and he suffered his mother's temper tantrums about family dishonour and ill-repute. That Christmas had been fun, full of stories of a common room high above the castle, secret passageways and playing tricks on the hapless caretaker.

He had still been the real Sirius then, brushing away Mother's imperious demands that he have nothing to do with that 'terrible Potter boy' or 'those mudblood girls with their skirts hiked around their waists.' Reg hadn't known them then, but for the stories. In those Potter was fun and daring, the other boys able side-kicks as they ran wild over the school. He had often imagined himself joining them for their midnight explorations of the school or the forest, and once even asked if Sirius would take him along next year.

His brother had smacked him over the head and said "Of course you can come, if you want to, as long as you're in Gryffindor."

Perhaps it all came back to him, he thought as he heard his brother stumble away, probably drunk already and going to puke. If he had just asked the hat to put him in Gryffindor too it might all be different, better. Except it wouldn't be; Sirius would still be the centre of attention, and he would be the one who simply followed his brother. Nothing special, except that Mother and Father would hate him too.

The last face he saw as the sorting hat slid over his grey-Black eyes was his cousin Narcissa, giving him that warning look, and when the hat asked him whether he wanted somewhere other than Slytherin he said no without stopping to think. The sneer of disdain that he knew all too well now had been pasted on his brother's face for the first time as he made the short walk to his new table. When they passed in the corridors he got a wave or a nod as his brother walked on with his friends, and when a hex-war broke out after the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match he didn't even get an acknowledgement, despite sneakily disarming the fourth-year about to hex his brother from behind.

Over the years he had become accustomed to the blatant disregard from Sirius, but it still burned a little every time his brother turned to his Gryffindor friends instead of him. They had stolen him away from his real family, like the fairies would come and steal children in the night in the old stories, and leave a replacement behind who wasn't quite right.

The sound of retching reached his ears as he passed by an open window overlooking their back garden. The icy night air made him shiver, and he hesitated, hand on the latch. His brother was curled on the ground, one hand still reaching for the bottle rolling out of his reach while the other kept his hair out of the way of his mouth. Sirius didn't want to speak to him, he reminded himself as he wedged the window shut. If he went down there now all he would get was another row and round of curses. And it served him right anyway, he shouldn't have thrown those spells and he definitely shouldn't have been drinking.

But the coughing, shivering lump looked so helpless, so pathetic that Reg couldn't turn away. Resigning himself to the abuse he slipped into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, swiping a potion vial from the back cabinet that mother used occasionally after formal events on the way through.

The adults were still in the sitting room, the soft tumble of words and the glowing lights in the Christmas tree falling through the slightly ajar door. He could clearly make out cousin Bella talking over Lucius Malfoy, like she usually did, and a quick glance showed Father, Abraxas Malfoy, Royden Urquhart and Uncle Cygnus in the corner by the fireplace, brooding over their firewhiskey. Mother was in the other corner with Auntie Dru and Aunt Lucretia, cooing over some piece of jewellery that Mrs Urquhart was holding. Kreacher was piling logs onto the fire, well and truly busy for the next while.

He slipped past cat-quiet, charming the back door to open silently as he snatched up two cloaks and stepped into the winter night. A gentle fall of snow was starting to dust the stone patio and the birdbath was solid ice, reflecting his wand-light as he stepped into the shadows and followed the growth of ivy around the side of the house. It took Sirius several seconds of bleary blinking before he seemed to realise who had come to his rescue, and he managed a slurred "go 'way Reg," before puking again.

Regulus knelt beside him, throwing the cloak over shaking shoulders and vanishing the stinking pike of liquid as it started steaming in the garden-bed. He held the glass of water up to his brother's lips, only to have it batted away with a silent glare and another round of heaving.

Eventually Sirius turned to look at him again, confusion mingling with annoyance in his grey eyes, and he raised the glass and waved it.

"It's not poison you know. You drunk that all by yourself."

Sirius glared at him for a few more seconds before reaching out and gulping the liquid down.

"Wasn't poison," he muttered between mouthfuls as he rinsed his mouth and spat. "That was Father's good elf-wine he was keeping for when the Minister visited. Bloody good vintage, though it tasted horrible on the way up."

He blinked for a few seconds and Regulus froze, wondering when the curses would start flying again. Astonishingly, Sirius smiled instead, and said "Maybe it was poisoned. Mother was complaining about how the Minister didn't understand the importance of proper pure-blood lines and wanted to knock her off."

Now it was Regulus' turn to blink in shock. This was how they used to talk, wild theories and fun stories instead of rows and curses. He tried a smile and found that it fit.

"Well in that case, we'd better get you the rare and expensive antidote. It's a long and dangerous quest. Oh wait, I forgot, I already grabbed some."

He held out the hangover potion, and couldn't help but smile as Sirius snatched it and gulped it down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Have I ever mentioned you're a wonderful brother when you're not being a prejudiced little shit?"

And there it was, right back to where they started. Only this time Regulus wasn't going to let it become a fight. It was Christmas Eve after all, a time for family whether they liked it or not.

"You could stand to mention it more," he replied carefully, keeping the smile in place so that Sirius would know he was joking around. "The wonderful brother bit, not the prejudiced little shit bit. You mention that plenty."

"Shouldn't give me so many opportunities."

He sighed, trying to think of something un-aggressive, and reached out for the nearly empty bottle near his feet.

"Father's good wine? Really? Do you actually have a death wish?"

Sirius grinned at this, and said, "You should try it. Go on, finish the bottle. I promise I didn't puke into it."

Regulus could think of a dozen reasons why it was a bad idea, but the fact that he and Sirius were _talking_ made him pour the last mouthful down his throat. It had a sweet taste, almost sickly sweet, with a hint of summer berries.

"Not bad," he said as he examined the label, noticing the fine writing marking it as the 1914 vintage, just like Sirius had said.

"Of course Father will be furious in about two weeks time when he finds it missing."

This earned him a mischievous grin and a clumsy clout to the shoulder.

"Ah but we'll be back at school then, brother of mine. He'll probably blame Kreacher and serve something else instead."

Regulus bit his lip to prevent a comment about how unfair that was to Kreacher, and looked up at the sky instead. Through the swirling clouds a small patch of moonlight was visible. It was half-full right now, and he reminded himself to finish his astronomy assignment before he got too side-tracked with presents and holidays. It was all the school-work he had left to do, having shut himself in his room for the first day and a half of the break, mostly to avoid the worst of the Mother-Sirius rows.

They always had a few bad ones during the first few days of every holidays, until they got used to being under the same roof again, and after two and a half years of school, Regulus had found the perfect escape. Academically he was on par with his brother, better even in Potions and Arithmancy, though he had to work for it. Sirius got away with glancing over his textbooks and charming the teachers, and occasionally doing his homework before it was due.

A sudden swirl of icy wind reminded Regulus of where he was sitting and he glanced up again to see nothing but clouds and a heavier fall of snow. Tugging at his brother's arm he said, "Come on, let's go sit by the fire. Uncle Alphard will have probably talked all the little ones to sleep by now, and if not we can just charm them silent."

For once his brother did as someone told him, rising shakily to his feet and leaning heavily on Regulus's shoulder as they walked together back to the house.


	27. 100 glimpses I

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

Written for the Vivid scenes/characters in 100 word challenge on HPFC.

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><p>Damask<p>

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><p>The swirling damask fluttered around her ankles as she twirled, and turned back into the arms of a boy she despised. Over his shoulder, she watched her sister do the same.<p>

The dance ended and she turned away from Lucius, knowing he would go straight to Narcissa, her flowing robes of sky blue far more suited to her than the dusky pink Andromeda was wearing.

The colour of innocence, of demure womanhood, the chains that bound her to a world where she would marry the man her sister loved.

She couldn't take this world any more.

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><p>Incorrigible<p>

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><p>It was a word he had heard often growing up. Some said it fondly, others in resigned disgust. His mother in particular was fond of the latter.<p>

But this, this was going to be the crowning glory of his life so far. The death glares from two tables over were balanced by Andi's wink as he took his seat. The first Black ever not in Slytherin, seven glorious years of not living in a dungeon, of running amok with the boy from the train.

He couldn't wait to write home.

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><p>Threshold<p>

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><p>He could taste the boy's scent on the air; all small children had that particular scent. Sweet innocence, fresh clothes and a dash of chocolate, a happy, beautiful world just waiting to be torn apart.<p>

The figure appeared in the doorway, wavering on the threshold, his face pale in the moonlight. Poor, stupid, innocent child; just the way he liked them. A lesson to that stuffy book-bound father; no more letters calling them monsters, not when it was his own son. Or maybe he would turn his back, cast out his own blood.

Vengeance tasted good either way.


	28. The Coward's Way

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

Written for the "Dark Side" Competition on HPFC.

Prompt: "So don't give up on me", pairing Zacharias Smith/Lucy Montgomery

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><p>The pain always helped clear his mind, his conscience. A little dose of the pain that he should have suffered alongside his housemates instead of running away, slowly but surely repaying the debt. At least that's what he told himself each night when he fell into a restless sleep, haunted as always by their faces. Megan and Stephen had died defending the castle, both crushed under the collapsed wall. Wayne, who had always been his closest friend in his house, was a soulless corpse, and would never know that the Death Eaters had removed his hands and feet in an attempt to see if he still felt pain. Ernie, also missing a hand, though he was getting a magical replacement; Susan, her face terribly and permanently marred by burns; Justin, limping for the rest of his life.<p>

Even his little Ravenclaw cousin Evvy had stayed to fight, only a month of age. There had been very little of her pretty face left in that cloud of red-gold curls. He had been the one to identify her, to find Marietta and tell her the fate of her little sister, but he could, should have done so much more.

He hadn't even returned with the reinforcements led by Professor Slughorn, when several _Slytherins_ had joined that charge. He had stayed huddled in a corner, in theory guarding the younger children, and not even succeeding at that when Creevey had led a band of twenty or so back to the fight. Only three had lived, more blood on his hands.

At least Lucy had been trying, her gentle, sweet manner keeping the eleven- and twelve-year-olds from panicking, while directing the few remaining older students to barricade the building. Her sister Amelia had escaped with Creevey's band, and she, like Zach had had a body to cry over in the ruined hall that morning.

Another cut, just for her. The blood was soaking into the sleeves of his robes now, but that wasn't important. Nothing was important anymore. He could just keep cutting, more and more, he could escape from the cold looks and snide remarks. No one would stand crying over his body; he was sure of that.

He didn't hear the knock on the door as he wavered on the edge of consciousness, giddy and light as his life washed away. Didn't hear the hurried footfalls as they pounded up the stairs, the slam of the door as it crashed open into the wall. Didn't hear the girl cursing as she healed his wounds.

He woke with the uncomfortably crisp sheets dragging across his chest, her dark hair falling over her face as she dozed in the chair beside him. He tried to turn away, but the movement made her stir and reach out, her hand clamping down on his shoulder, fingers curling into his skin.

"Zach?"

She blinked groggily and loosened her grip, shifting her hand to his hair, his face. The face of a coward, twice over now. Always ready to take the easy way out.

He tried again to turn away, to bury the shame in the starched pillow, but her grip tightened again.

"Please Zach, please don't give up. I'm here for you, I need you. Don't give up on me, on us."

"How can you possibly want me?"

He had never understood why, never asked, afraid that she might not have a reason and would leave. Not that he deserved having her stay.

"Because you have never pretended to be anything other than what you are. You may not be perfect, but I understand you. I don't want a hero; heroes go and get themselves killed. I want someone who loves me, who needs me as much as I need them, and who will be there when I turn around. It may sound stupid, but that's how it is."

The tears she cried for him burned his heart like the half-healed wounds tracking up and down his arms. He would never be a hero, he would never forgive himself for the past. But he could at least be there for the girl he loved so that she didn't suffer as well.


	29. Warhorse

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the After the War challenge on HPFC.

Character: Aberforth Dumbledore

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><p>Three times living through the aftermath of war didn't make it any easier. The first time he had still been a relatively young man, bitter, unconcerned. The rest of the world named his brother their hero and who was he to argue; who was he to tell the truth. The only good thing to come out of that war was seeing some vengeance for Ariana. One in prison all his life, the other his heart broken so that he could begin to understand the pain of love. One couldn't truly feel loss until one lost someone they loved. For Albus it had probably been a new experience.<p>

The second war came when he was old and tired and so much wiser. He understood that war wasn't a matter of heroes and villains duelling to the death, but a long, turgid, terrible river of human atrocities that dragged in anyone caught too close. He had done what he could, gathering information, hiding fugitives. It never ceased to amaze him how many people forgot or looked past his family connections, and as long as he kept his head bent and his face masked by the mess of shaggy white hair while he served drinks, no-one ever thought twice about who he might repeat their conversations to.

Occasionally he had been called upon for a fight, though his reflexes weren't what they were as a youth, and that terrible day when he fought his brother and that monster had soured his love of duelling. When the word came of You-Know-Who's defeat and the tragic fate of the Potters he had forced himself to keep going. After all, how was the wizarding world supposed to celebrate without a pub? They were sad for sure that the sweet young girl who had once grown flowers out of a glass she claimed was still dirty and made the entire pub laugh and the young man whose escapades were beyond counting were dead and gone. They were horrified at the terrible betrayal of a friendship they had all seen run amok through their village. They were openly admiring of the poor orphaned baby who had become their saviour. But in the end all they wanted to do was go back to their normal lives free of fear and worry, so he tried to do the same. He eventually fell back to a normal life revolving around barrels of beer, tossing out rowdy customers and milking Hildegard and Nimble.

The third war started well before the reporters claimed, and no doubt the history books would list '96 or '97 as the year it all began. But that wasn't true, Ab knew. His brother had come to him in the summer of '92, the year after the 'Boy Who Lived' started Hogwarts with a tale of dark magic and darker tidings.

Ab was particularly bothered by the fact he hadn't noticed the dragon egg incident, and he suspected a number of persuasion charms were used to keep others out and to keep Hagrid interested. Then again, perhaps the latter hadn't been needed.

When the following year saw the removal of his brother from the role of Headmaster at the hands of that pompous Malfoy prat he knew trouble was on the way. He also got the distinct pleasure of having Albus use one of his better rooms, and the accompanying litany on how a few cleaning spells went a long way. The downhill slope wasn't long in coming, and the small lights such as Black turning out to be the decent boy he had once thought he knew were all too few amongst the descending cloud.

His brother's death hit him surprisingly hard, despite the near two months notice. He hadn't really believed Albus when his brother announced his imminent demise one night over a glass of firewhiskey. Despite all his faults, his brother was a damned good wizard and had never stunted himself in trying to keep his skin in one piece. It just didn't make sense that he would let some stupid curse kill him without a fight, and in the end he wept for his last remaining relative almost as much as he had for Ariana.

Those last few weeks of the war had been difficult, trying to balance his impulse to bag young Longbottom up and send him somewhere safe with helping the honour-bound fool get himself killed. Potter and his friends had been worse, especially when they brought the news of Dobby's death. The elf had been the company he needed when he remembered that he was the last one left, and the goats had liked him too.

But in the end he had fought like the days of his half-forgotten youth and the dark had been beaten back, just like Albus had always promised. Good to know some of his brother's promises held true. And now he was back here again, rebuilding his life for the third time.

The pub was still standing, the customers still came. Nimble and Hildy and Toots still slept by the fire. There were still tables to be polished and beer to brew, children to grow old and light-fingered sots to toss out of his place (again). Some days he felt the burden of loneliness more than others, and some of those days he drank away the pain. But over time they became less and less, and the knowledge that his death would mean the end of the Dumbledores could again be tucked away with the reminder that for now, at least, he lived.

The day he remembered the old family portrait, the three of them together in their youth before the darkness fell completely on their family was the last day he cried. The battered old thing was magically packed in a trunk in the basement amongst other odds and ends from his too long life. He knew little of portrait-lore, but there were plenty of portraits that jumped from one frame to another so long as one of them was activated before the subject's death. Perhaps once more they could all be together as a family.

He had been twelve when it was painted, he remembered. It had taken five days of their summer, their mother's constant criticisms and corrections ringing in their' and the artist's ears. Ariana still had those sweet little dimples and a wreath of daisies in her hair. Albus was pompous-looking as ever with his shiny new prefect's badge pinned to the front of his meticulously straight robes. And Ab in the middle, his hair as rumpled as his clothing despite his mother straightening both every five minutes, one arm around his sister's shoulders.

Suddenly the little girl blinked, and the laugh echoed from the worn canvas like a wave of light. She was always the adventurous one, his Ariana, and he was glad she had somewhere else to go where he could be beside her. Perhaps he would save up and buy some paintings of pretty hillsides dotted with goats so she could run in them too. He brushed a finger over the peeling paint that marked out his hair, but the figure remained perfectly still. He would have to get someone to touch it up, the Thomas boy maybe. And maybe even have a painting done of himself so that when the day finally came they could both run together again and he could make sure whoever took over his pub didn't destroy it.

A cough interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced over to where the other painted figure was looking about in amused astonishment. His teenaged brother stroked the beardless chin and felt the badge on his chest before looking up from the canvass.

"Well, I must say I didn't expect this. This was …ninety-six, yes?"

Ab could only nod, though he didn't try to do the maths. What did it matter when his brother and sister were returned to him? And someday, probably someday soon for he was beginning to feel the weight of the years pressing down on him, he would run with them again.


	30. Surviving Quidditch

**Disclaimer: If you recognise it it belongs to JKR**

****Written for the guilty pleasure fic exchange II on HPFC, also my entry for muggle studies in the school subjects competition.

Pairing: Dudley/Sally-Anne Prompt: Are you sure this isn't a bad idea

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><p>"Are you sure this isn't a bad idea?"<p>

"It will be _fine_. Honestly anyone would think you were scared."

Dudley swallowed heavily and tried smile convincingly; if she realised how terrified he actually was he would never hear the end of it.

He had mostly dealt with his fear of magic during the months they spent in hiding while Harry was out killing that murderous bastard, but he was still far from comfortable in the wizarding world. A fact that was going to have to change if this relationship was going to last.

"Look, you wait here while I fetch the tickets. Do you think you can manage that without running off from the terrifying crowd."

She smirked as she gestured past them to where a pair of little boys were running around making swooshing noises as they threw a small red ball back and forth.

"Well, you never know when one of them might turn out to be some evil creature or…"

"Oh shut up. I'll only be a minute."

He watched appreciatively as she sauntered over to the black and white booth, where a spotty young man leaped forward to help her. It always made him smile watching her wrap young men, himself included, around her little finger. At a first glance she was rather plain looking, with a round face, a full, curvy figure and short dark hair. But then she smiled that winsome smile and widened those corn-flower blue eyes and he found himself completely unable to object to anything she said. Which was why they were here at this Quidditch match.

Dudley himself had a limited grasp of what the game entailed, mostly gained from listening to the talk in the safe house where he spent most of that terrible year in hiding. It was where they had met, the one shining light amongst all the fear and darkness of the war, though his parents had made it clear from the outset that they did not approve. The Perks-Macewan family were one of five groups hiding out in the cleverly disguised estate, though there were others who came and went occasionally.

Sally-Anne was the oldest of the four children, and had even been in Harry's year, though she said she had only spoken to him on a few occasions. Her witch mother had died when she was young and her muggle father re-married to a lady who turned out to have had a magical grandmother and as such one of her brothers was a wizard too. Dudley guessed from the way it was brought up that this was incredibly rare and a point of some contention.

Louise Perks-Macewan was three years younger and a right pain in the arse, complaining about everything and everyone so much that even Dudley's parents had seemed less objectionable. The younger boy, Jacob was eleven and felt terribly hard done by that he didn't have any special powers, especially when Michael did.

Dudley quite liked Mikey, who was twelve and the main reason that the family were in hiding. Sally-Anne could apparently have gone to school that year as her mother was well-enough known to the magical community that she would have been accepted. Instead she had decided to stay with her family and protect them, though after two months of her sister's whining Dudley started to wonder if the jokes about using Louise for bait were still jokes. As one of the seven wand-carrying adults, she took her turn standing guard of the ramshackle manor-house, though she had confided to Dudley more than once that she wasn't sure what she would actually be able to do if an attack happened.

It had made Dudley realise how helpless he was in the face of magical danger. Sure if one of the bastards had got in arms reach he would've backed himself to floor them before they had time to do any of that mumbo-jumbo, but from ten feet or more the wizard would win every time. Even so he had spent part of his days giving boxing lessons to the adults as well as the other kids.

"Wake up Big D."

Dudley jerked as a piece of parchment waved in front of his face.

"Daydreaming?"

"Oh shut up. So where do we go now?"

She grabbed his arm in reply and Dudley let her drag him towards the arched entrance to the stadium. A sudden wave of uneasiness washed over him as they approached the gateway.

"I don't feel so good."

"Just keep a hold of my hand. It's probably the muggle-repelling charms, but as long as you're with me we'll get through."

"Muggle-repelling charms?"

Dudley tried to keep the tremor out of his voice as they passed another young man their tickets.

"Oh yeah. They use them to keep the games secret. But we went to games as a family before. It'll be fine as soon as we get inside."

Sure enough, the moment they passed inside to the stands the uneasiness disappeared and he breathed a sigh of relief. They made their way to seats, ignoring the strange looks from the crowd as they passed through.

"Here we go. Not the best view I'm afraid," Sally-Ann said as they settled themselves in a section seemingly full of black-and-white robed supporters.

"I dunno. I'm not complaining about the view. Not when you're in it," he replied with a grin and received a gentle punch to the shoulder.

"Oh shut it you."

"So I'm not even allowed to compliment you?"

"Not when the game is about to start. I haven't seen the Magpies play in five years."

"So the Magpies are one of the teams today?"

He grinned at her look, then feigned innocent ignorance.

"I'm just a simple muggle remember. I know nothing of Quidditches and bluffers or quadgers."

"You are so getting it later, Mister Dursley."

"I look forward to it."

Expecting another clout, Dudley was surprised to find her head suddenly resting on his shoulder.

"You can be so….I dunno…"

Whatever she was about to say was cut off by a sudden blast of music which echoed through the stands. Over the roar of the crowd, he caught the words "-swoop and soar-" and guessed this was the Magpie's song. Sure enough seven black and white robed figures flashed by with the dying strains of music to great approval from the people in the surrounding seats.

"Aaaand announcing the Montrose Magpies line-up: Preston, Montague, Campbell, Braithwaite, Turio, MacMillan and Campbell. Please welcome Graham Montague on his debut today."

"Git," he heard Sally-Ann mutter at the last. "Though he can't be worse than Maddock or Truscott. That was just embarrassing."

Dudley vaguely remembered hearing a few rants about a Maddock who was obsessed with muggle sports, though he decided now was not the time to ask for specifics. He didn't want to be lynched by the crowd.

A new song started up to the cheers of the other side of the stadium, and seven dark green figures blurred past to the booing of the Magpies fans.

"Aaaaand here are the Holyhead Harpies: Morgan, Greenwood, Weasley, O'Donnell, Jones, Scrimgeour, and, Praxon. Weasley is a last minute replacement for chaser Felicia Gumpton, and is also making her debut today."

A veritable roar from the other end of the stadium drowned out any booing from the Magpies fans, and Dudley blinked in surprise.

"Weasley? Not-"

Sure enough there was a vaguely familiar green-robed figure with flaming hair in the centre of the ring of players. He turned to point her out when a whistle blew and suddenly the pitch erupted into chaos. Chaos that gained order at an unbelievable pace.

"Wow," he whispered as blurs of green and black surrounded a flash of red, circling, swooping and racing faster than anything he had ever seen.

"And it's Greenwood with the quaffle, passing back and forth with Morgan, ooh good defence from Jones there. The captain sends that bludger right back at Augusti Turio, who ducks and accidentally blocks his chaser's path. Morgan to Greenwood now who shoots…and a good save by Braithwaite there. She passes to Montague who fakes a throw to Preston then takes it himself…oh WOW, what a dive from Weasley, who makes him duck and he drops the quaffle to Greenwood. Good team play by the Harpies."

"Told you it was good."

He turned to Sally-Ann, who was grinning smugly.

"It's not bad I guess. Though compared to boxing or football…ooff."

This time the clout to the shoulder landed well, though she continued smiling until the announcer called, "And Morgan scores. Ten-nil Harpies."

"Bugger!"

She turned back to the game, joining in hollering with the crowd as the Magpies players launched a counter-attack.

Three hours later Dudley felt he had a general idea of the rules, though he was still not sure of the fouls. To him it seemed strange that it was against the rules to gang up on the goalkeeper, but perfectly ok to hit a cannonball at her. The mixed teams also threw him a bit, what with nine of the fourteen players being female. But they were clearly no less skilled than the men, especially since the all-woman Harpies were leading by five goals when the first time-out was called.

The woman he recognised as his Cousin Harry's girlfriend was responsible for eleven of the Harpies' thirty-two, apparently an impressive first performance in the senior competition. Sort of like the time Russell Nolan from the year behind Dudley at Smeltings won his first fight ever by TKO in the first round.

"Having fun?"

Despite his worry earlier, Dudley realised he was enjoying himself, even surrounded by magic.

"Well, sports are sports right? Besides, how can I not have fun with you here."

He watched as her face lit up with that smile that never failed to melt his heart, those blue eyes wide and-

"And Praxon has the snitch, it's all over ladies and gentlemen. The Holyhead Harpies win it four-hundred and eighty to two-hundred and seventy. Jacinta Praxon with the snitch."

"Well bugger." She turned back to scowl at the pitch, where the Harpies seeker was pumping her fist in victory. He used the opportunity to throw an arm around her shoulders and drew her back against him while the surrounding crowd gave voice to their displeasure.

"I guess we'll just have to come again and see them win next time," he said as they watched the green-clad witches complete a victory lap above their heads.

"Sounds like a plan to me."


	31. Seeing Green Lilies

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.**

My entry for Arithmancy in the School Subjects Competition (fic must be cannon). Will later be a chapter in my fic Generation M just as soon as I finish writing the letters between L and R.

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><p>She would listen this time. She had to listen. It just wasn't right otherwise. Potter must have hexed her, a Confundus charm maybe, or even the Imperious curse. He wouldn't put it past him.<p>

After all he did come from a pureblood family, and he clearly had no trouble hurting or manipulating others just to make himself feel good. There was simply no way that Lily Evans, _his Lily_, was dating that…that bastard of her own free will.

The year had started badly for Sev, what with Potter's outrageous promotion to Head Boy, giving him yet another avenue to bully and torment without reprisal. Lily still wasn't speaking to him; it had been over a year since they had last had a conversation about anything other than NEWT Potions. The fact that she was Head Girl alongside Potter meant that the pretentious prat had every opportunity in the world to proposition her, and to make sure she only heard bad about Sev.

It had only got worse over time, the way she oriented to him when they spoke, the way he played charming Romeo whenever she was watching. Last week they had passed in the corridor, speaking with the other girls in her year, talking about James' new idea. When had she ever called him James? It was always that arrogant toerag Potter.

And now they were together, the talk of the school. Head Girl and Head Boy, girlfriend and boyfriend, meant to be and all that nonsense. It was enough to make him sick. It had to be a spell of some sort.

There was no way his Lily would fall for that.


	32. What Friends Are For

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Herbology entry for the School Subjects Competition on HPFC (fic about platonic friendship)

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><p>He had never really had friends before, not in this sense. Cousins he had aplenty; four on his mother's side, six on his father's. None of them were exactly his age, though Vanessa and Michael never minded him tagging along and he enjoyed making up games for Lachie and Rissa whenever they were around.<p>

His mother had objected to him attending the local muggle primary school though and instead had arranged for a tutor three times a week to teach him his numbers and letters. Mister Wallace was a grumpy old man who catered to three different families throughout the week, all of which apparently had smarter children than Peter. Otherwise he spent his days helping Father in the greenhouse, listening to him ramble on about how this plant cured hives and that one should never be mixed with alcohol or garlic when eaten. Which was turning out to be quite useful given their current situation.

"Are you sure these are the right ones?"

Peter fumbled in the dark for the handful of mushrooms shoved towards his face, trying not to squeak as one rolled down the front of his robes.

"I can't see, hang on-"

"Oh for pity's sake. Here"

They all winced as the sudden blinding flash of wand-light. James glared as he threw his cloak over Sirius's hands so that the glow was hidden from the top, lighting up their faces like Peter did when he was telling monster stories at Halloween. After ten seconds of holding their breath, it seemed decided that no-one was coming to investigate dancing lights on the edge of the Forest at midnight. Peter blinked his eyes a few times to clear the dancing spots and examined the mushrooms that Remus was waving under his nose. He quickly discarded two with dark rings around the top of the stem and sniffed the others, noting the sickly-sweet smell and tiny purple speckles barely visible in the low light.

"These are the ones. Drop a piece or two in their pumpkin juice and they'll be running to the loo every five minutes for the rest of the night."

"Perfect," he heard James mutter, and had a moment of apprehension as he watched Sirius wrap them in his handkerchief and slip them under his cloak. What if he was wrong? What if they were actually deadly poison? He opened his mouth to say that maybe they should check somehow first when James clapped him on the shoulder and whispered "Good job Pete. Glad you're on our side."

So he said nothing and was relieved two days later when several Slytherin students bolted from the Great Hall mid-meal, shoving each other out of the way as they raced for the bathroom. He hoped they realised what it was for; noticed that they were the six people who had laughed when Mulciber hit him with a petrifying jinx during the flying lesson. Payback was all the better when you had friends to help you out.


	33. A Birthday Fool

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

****Written for Charms in the School subjects competition on HPFC. The challenge was to write either a character you don't normally write, or a character doing something they don't normally do. In this case I did both.

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><p>His hands were shaking as he whispered the charm to unlock the door. Glancing furtively from side to side, he slipped through the gap, closing and locking it again as an additional precaution. It would not do to be caught here, not today.<p>

The containers he needed were on the top shelf, as always, and he carefully lifted the tops of each of them before drawing the packet from the concealed pocket of his robes. All it would take was a few seconds work, but even so he found himself almost perspiring with fear. If anyone walked past now, they would surely hear his heart thudding in his chest as he used his wand to vanish the white cubes in the bowls, checking that the blocks he replaced them with were indistinguishable from the original ones.

Perhaps he should have only placed a few on top of each bowl, but it was too late for that now and he would just have to hope that enough people took sugar with their tea today that they would be all gone tomorrow.

He vanished the remains of the paper satchel and cleaned his hands and robes with a quick flick of his wand, making sure there was no trace of anything to condemn him later. Returning the sugar-bowls to their shelf, he slipped as silently from the tea-room as he had come, joining the usual early morning crowd in the Ministry corridors on the way to his office. He hoped he appeared his normal self as he nodded greeting to the stream of familiar faces; hoped that the trickle of sweat down the back of his neck or the reddening of his ears gave nothing away.

It would be even worse at morning tea, trying to act innocent and inconspicuous in the carnage that would likely ensue. He was fairly sure the spell was slow-acting enough to give plenty of people the chance to consume their tea. All he would need to do was be sufficiently distracted by something that his cup was still full when the first reaction triggered.

And, of course, try not to laugh too much as a good portion of the Minister's staff temporarily gained avian status. Surely they should have known better than to schedule a joint departments meeting on the first day of April, the first of the Twins' birthdays to pass without half of the pair there. The first time in eighteen years he had not been the recipient of a prank of some sort courtesy of his brothers, who started the tradition the year they turned three and had kept it up even those years he was away at Hogwarts. Especially those years when he had abandoned his family, though those had been less pranks and more property damage.

Regardless it was his turn to keep the tradition going, and Percy was quite sure that one of his brother was watching down laughing, and that maybe the other would put down the bottle and crack a smile when he heard the story.

"Happy Birthday Fred," he whispered as he settled down to the mountain of paperwork that would occupy the time until the meeting started. Today was going to be a good day.


	34. The Taste of Darkness

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

****Written for Care of Magical Creatures (outdoors or creature-centric fic) for the school subjects competition on HPFC.

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><p>She had always liked the darkness. It tasted cool and clear and sweet as the rodents who darted from their homes searching for food and found themselves in her path. The sweet, sweet taste of freedom and satisfaction that she had been denied so many years.<p>

The master was kind to her, for he shared her spirit and understood the ways of their cold-blooded brethren. He understood the weakness of fear and love and mercy, and therefore understood how to use them. Fear, like the way she trapped her prey with her hypnotic gaze. Love, the way another would sacrifice themself in vain to save one they cared for so that her meal was ultimately doubled. Mercy, the gift of cold, peaceful rest that she gave with a single caress of her fangs.

The other ones she did not like so well. Both were insufferably heated, one with passion the other with fear. Fear was a delicacy to her, but the fear in this one was tainted by sour sweat and grime. Stewing for too long to be sweet any more. The passionate devotion of the other left her nauseous, though the master bid her leave him be so she did. For now.

She could taste them in the upper room by the warm fire as she approached, the smoke and the sour fear nearly overwhelming. And there was something else, a slight taste of other prey lingering behind the door, where her eyes made out a disturbance in the shadows.

Man-meat, though a little old and stringy. Not as fresh as she would have liked, but a good enough meal once the Master had finished with him. Sliding through the door, she hissed low and swift.

_Master, there is a man outside the door. He tastes old and afraid, but he is listening. _

_Clever Nagini_, the master replied, his words cool and soothing as always. _He shall be yours once I have finished with him_.

She curled herself on the rug, by the pleasant warmth of the fire as the master's foul servants did his bidding, patiently waiting her turn. She would be full tonight.


	35. Chained

**DISCLAIMER: If you recognise it it belongs to JKR.**

Written for Astronomy (romance fic) in the school subjects competition on HPFC.

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><p>"That one, there."<p>

"By the pointy tree?"

"No, over there, just above that cloud. See?"

"Not really. You know I'm not good at stars, Dromeda."

Andromeda slid her fingers into his, drawing his arm upright and pointing with their clasped hands.

"Right there. And yes I do know, since I'm the one who coached you through your Astronomy OWL."

"Which I paid back in full teaching you Arithmancy," Ted replied, drawing her hand back down so he could kiss it. "Only I wasn't silly enough to take a NEWT in a subject I was otherwise scraping by in."

She pulled a face at him, for they both knew full well the main reason she took Arithmancy was to spend time with her forbidden boyfriend. Though Lucius felt that it was an unwomanly subject, so she gained the bonus of spiting her loathed fiancé too.

"One more year, Ted. Then what will we do?"

"A year and three months. Look on the bright side. And we will survive. Somehow. Even if I have to steal you away and we can run away to Australia and live in the wilds. Just you and me, no Malfoys, no Blacks, no up-tight Pureblood society telling you how to act."

She felt her body tensing in response to even his light-hearted words, for she knew it was impossible.

"Don't say things like that Ted. Besides, I could never leave Bella and Cissa. I belong to them as much as to you. More even."

"And to Malfoy?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his hatred for the boy she was irrevocably bound to by her family's promises.

"I will never belong to Lucius Malfoy, even when we are married. I am a Black, and we bow down to no-one."

"So I've noticed, love," he whispered, tweaking her nose before drawing her close in his arms so that they could both lie back in the forest clearing and watch the glistening stars dance overhead.

One more year of Hogwarts after this, too little time to share the wonderful relationship she had discovered with a boy she could never be allowed to love.

The constellations above were as familiar to her as the faces of those who bore their names. Uncle Orion, so meek and quiet compared to his mythological namesake. Sirius, so bright and bold. Already forging his own path as a Gryffindor. Bellatrix, the warrior. Her sister was always good for a fight. Regulus, who would prove next year whether he lived up to his name as heart of the lion, though she doubted it.

Andromeda, the woman chained. So depressingly apt a description of her life, but she didn't have the courage to make it any different. Ted wanted to be her Perseus, but she could never let him take that risk. Her family would…

"You're frowning again. I am not letting you frown in my company on such a nice night. Now come on, what's that constellation up there?"

The light voice dragged her momentarily from her dark musings, and she ran her fingers through his floppy fringe, letting the physical contact tether her to the present.

"Gemini, as you well know, since I made you draw it out enough times last year."

His fingers were cool as he drew them down the side of her cheek, pulling her face close so that his reply tickled her lips.

"Of course I do, love. I just like hearing you say it."

She let him kiss her, trying to lose herself in the moment so that for just a little while she could forget the looming figures of her family, who would tear this moment apart.


	36. Bloodlines

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the school subjects competition on HPFC for Ancient Runes (must involve mystery)

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><p>He had been working on this problem for three years now, driving himself to sleepless nights and migrane headaches as he pored over every scrap of evidence he could lay his hands on. Well, three and a half if you counted the last part of his apprenticeship, where he first became interested in it. Though that strictly wasn't true either. As a child he had always loved the tale of three brothers, always requested it on story nights, with Lily agreeing as she liked the bit about the youngest child winning out.<p>

It was only natural that his fascination would continue through the years, pretending that the invisibility cloak James had inherited from Dad was the real Hallow. Pretending that the wand he received at eleven, alder and dragon heartstring, was the real Elder wand somehow lost and refound in a dusty corner of Ollivanders. Pretending that the stone pendant he found behind the wall of Grimmauld Place was really the resurrection stone hidden away by pureblood descendants of Cadmus Peverell.

Now that his actual job pertained to examining the mysteries that even magic couldn't simply solve, it made sense for him to pursue the interest in an academic way. Not many in the department worked in Death, and he tried to balance the hours by the chilled stone archway with his studies in the Time and Faith divisions, pondering over a hundred different versions of the tale alongside wizarding genealogies and barely legible records of ancient villages.

He had successfully nailed down the time that the brothers would have lived, and even managed to trace three previously unknown jumps in the Elder wand's deadly history before he stumbled across the family tree that made his heart stop.

The letters of the female name were barely legible at the top of the page, and she was clearly considered unimportant compared to the central Abbott family patriarch who she had wed, but he eventually restored the almost invisible ink to see the name Illiana Peverell, familiar to him as the only child ultimately descended from Ignotius where the line died out. At the other end of the tree, tracing the path of the eldest son or only child from this joining to the base of the scroll led to another familiar name, Carandus Potter, the father of Rickard and Charlus Potter, his own great-grandfather and great-uncle.

As Albus collected his notes together and double-checked the protective spells on the precious documents he felt the dull ache in his head subside somewhat, to be replaced with a feeling of almost giddy excitement low in his stomach. It was time to have a very long talk with his father.


	37. Where Wolves Do Prowl

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the School Subjects Competition on HPFC for DADA (DE, DA or Order member during one of the wars). Original inspiration from the one line challenge III, though I never got around to writing it then.

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><p>Late into the night, the snow fell and fell. Curled about herself with her tail wrapped across her nose, she cursed herself for the hundredth time. How could she have been so careless as to drop her wand?<p>

The baying and snarling of the hunting pack caused an involuntary shiver beyond the icy wind that reached her even in her tiny cave. She forced away the fear, swamping it with reason; animagi didn't appear to werewolves as people so she should be safe. She was almost able to convince herself that there was nothing to fear.

Once the yelping cries were swamped by the thrumming wind she forced herself to relax, clenching and unclenching the muscles in her four legs. If she could survive the night she would hopefully be able to re-trace her steps to the clearing and find her wand. Preferably before the werewolves regained their human forms and senses.

Right now the main problem was the cold. Her furred form kept her warmer than the robes would if she changed back, and since her only shelter was this tiny crevasse she was limited to her feline shape for now.

Realising that any attempt at sleep was folly she replayed the evening's events over in her mind, attempting to see where she went wrong. The plan had been simple; Greyback was growing ever more violent and suspicious of Remus, but her former student refused to budge while Greyback still had children under his control. The boy was a natural teacher and the two little boys and the almost teenage girl had gravitated to him swiftly, eager to learn more of the world beyond the woods.

Apparently Greyback hadn't cared much for this and the last time she saw him, Remus had fresh bruising around his face and a ragged, stained bandage around his upper thigh. From the way he winced as he spoke she also suspected broken ribs and tried to pull him from the mission there and then. Eventually they had agreed on a plan which involved an illegal portkey for him and the children just as the moon rose. It was the only time Greyback let down his vigilance enough for her to get close. They had cobbled together a device of branches and ropes which she magically attached to all four of them just as the transformation began, whisking their writhing forms away to an old cellar. Lily and Dorcas were waiting there behind magical barriers to keep them from hurting themselves.

She had assumed her position, perched in the fork of an overhanging oak tree forty feet up, would be sufficient protection for the few seconds she needed to apparate to safety. A sudden gust of wind had foiled her escape however, the icy branches cracking under her feet and her hand instinctively releasing its grip on her wand to lunge for a tree-limb to hang on to. She was no longer a young woman, and fifty-four-year-old reflexes were not sufficient to catch the spiralling fir twig as it fell to the ground.

Disarmed, she had resorted to her back-up plan and transformed, scrambling down the tree the same way she had climbed it. Racing through the snow-drifts ahead of the slavering pack, she was much faster on four legs than two, and managed to find a suitable hiding place before they caught her up.

At least Remus and the three children had escaped, though they would have to keep young Lupin well away from anywhere Greyback was likely to be in the near future. Perhaps they could hide him with the Potters, since they had their cottage under the separate Fidelius Charm already, and Remus was as good as any of them at handling little Harry. She remembered with amusement the first birthday celebrations that had been thrown for him and Neville, with much of the Order in attendance at the old manorhouse that was currently used for headquarters. Both boys fell asleep long before the party was over, and the celebration of life was a necessary reminder for all of them about what they were fighting for.

A break in the wind let her hear the howling of the pack, more distant than before, and she let her tensed muscles relax slightly, readjusting the position of her tail so that her face was well covered. The werewolves were far enough from any towns to do harm this moon, though next month was Halloween and with all the children about they would undoubtedly be on the prowl. That was a problem for next month, however. For now all she could do was curl up and sleep and wait for morning.


	38. Blood On His Hands

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

****Written for Transfiguration in the School Subjects Competition on HPFC (AU)

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><p>It was the sight of her body that did. He had been crossing the entrance hall, finally free from McGonagall's clutches when the door burst open to reveal the oaf cradling her in his arms. He had vaguely recognised her as the mudblood Gryffindor chaser, the wheat-gold hair falling in waves across her too-pale face. A clatter of footsteps behind him warned him in time to jump out of McGonagall's way as she cluttered down the stairs, and her anguished words echoed in the near empty stone hall.<p>

Dead. Katie Bell was dead from some unknown curse as she walked back from Hogsmeade. It hadn't taken him long to work out the cause and he ducked behind a tapestry just in time to see Potter and his little gang hurry through the great oak doors, a bundled scarf with a hint of silver peeking through in his arms.

Draco had been getting desperate; the Dark Lord's threats to his mother and father were harsher with every communication, and he spent every waking hour thinking about or working on the bloody cabinet. After a particularly bad afternoon where he successfully undid a week of repairs with a mispronounced spell he had given up, decided there had to be an easier way. Something so simple and stupid that Dumbledore would never see it coming.

The instructions were as simple as he could make them; Aunt Bella had taught him well the use of Unforgivables. The Imperious curse worked best on a simple minded individual, and required concise, direct instructions repeated regularly.

"Wait in the bathroom until a girl comes in. Not a Slytherin girl, any other girl will do. Give her the necklace and confund her. Then the imperious curse. Tell her to take it to Dumbledore. It's a present, a surprise present."

It should have been so simple. No-one was in any danger except the old man, which was the whole point. No-one could pin a thing on Draco, even if it failed because he was in a carefully obtained detention from that sour old biddy who though he cared about stupid Hogsmeade visits. And if Dumbledore somehow survived through luck or that bloody intuition he seemed to have then Draco was no worse off than before.

But instead it was all wrong and no matter how many times he told himself that the death of an up jumped Gryffindor mudblood slut didn't bother him, shouldn't bother him he couldn't help remember facing her on the pitch or seeing her across the hall. It reminded him that she was a living breathing person, who had a life and things to do. Things she would never do because of him.

His hands were shaking as he shifted the edge of the tapestry slightly to look out and make his escape, but they were all still there. They would always be there now, watching him, condemning him for the murder he committed. How long would it take Dumbledore to figure out who the culprit was? What would the old man do then?

Draco knew if he was caught then the Dark Lord would execute his mother. That much had been made clear from the moment he took service, before his arm had even finished burning with the mark. If he fled then he would be considered a traitor and would be hunted down by the Death Eaters. No, that was no option either.

Perhaps Snape could help him somehow. Shield him, find someone else to pass the blame to. Except Snape was one of the Dark Lord's favourites. He would probably just turn around and report Draco's failure, gloating at the Malfoys' fall from grace. But he had to do something, and do it fast before he found himself trapped here against every teacher, not to mention Potter and his band of followers.

Could he hide in the Room of Hidden Things, make Crabbe and Goyle bring him food until he successfully fixed the cabinet? No, they would surely be watched too closely. Nott maybe. He was smart and his father was one of the Dark Lord's, though Nott himself seemed to care little for the movement. Then again Nott might decide it was safer just to turn Draco in and absolve himself of any blame or suspicion.

Pansy. She would do it to help him, though whether she could pass unnoticed would have to be seen. Now he just had to slip away, up the stairs to the Room...but he needed to go to the Owlery first and send a message so that the Dark Lord would know he hadn't fled. And he would need the notes that were in his dormitory, and probably access to the library.

It just wasn't going to work. He slapped the stone wall in frustration. Maybe he should just charge up to Dumbledore's office and duel him right there and then. Surely the surprise would be enough to disarm the old man and then Draco could finish him at his leisure. But what if he failed? He would probably fail; the Dark Lord feared an outright fight with the muggle-loving fool so there was no way he could win, even with Dumbledore thinking that he was just a helpless boy capable of redemption.

The old man was foolish enough to believe Snape's lies, but would he be so forgiving of Draco now that there was blood on his hands? Maybe he would….

He shifted the tapestry for another peek at the entrance hall, where a small number of students were still milling about. He could hear the whispers echoing, the condemning words retelling the story over and over. He was a caged animal now, with nowhere to run. So maybe he would just have to let himself be tamed.

The Dark Lord feared Dumbledore for a reason; if the old man could rescue Draco's parents and hide them then the problem would go away. If he grovelled and begged and swore he had never meant any harm then the headmaster couldn't throw him to the lions. If he asked for a chance to redeem himself then surely he would be given the same opportunity as Snape. He was still a minor under Dumbledore's care, they had to help him. It was his only hope now, for his own survival as well as his family.

Summoning what little courage he could, he forced himself to step out from behind the tapestry, ignoring the glares of the Gryffindors and the stares of the other houses. Dimly he realised the wetness on his cheeks meant his eyes were probably red, though he didn't remember crying.

Malfoys don't cry. His father's words whenever he skinned his knee or fell from his broom, whenever he failed at a task and earned the disapproval or wrath of his paternal relatives. And this was the greatest failure of all. His father would never forgive him if he surrendered, but he would take his father's hatred if it gave him his mother's life and his own freedom.

The walk to Dumbledore's office seemed far longer when every person he passed whispered and stared with judging eyes. How did they know? A body brushed past his, some Ravenclaw in a hurry not an Auror come to place him under arrest, though his heart rate leaped and he stumbled into the stone wall in shock. The gargoyle who he had tried to find some way around as an initial idea for his mission didn't say a word as the door slid open, and Draco suddenly felt sick as he realised what this meant. Dumbledore knew. Was this a trap? Or was it the chance he was hoping for, the chance to be saved. Either way it was the only chance he had.


	39. The Things Left Behind

**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR. **

Written for the Pieces of a Life challenge on HPFC, also my entry for Divination in the School Subjects Competition on HPFC.

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><p>Molly Bracken had always hated funerals. Being stuck in a room full of emotional people sobbing into handkerchiefs while they spoke of tragic losses and untimely deaths just made her want to break into song or dance or do something to make them smile. She often felt she would be crushed by the emotions of the people surrounding her. Which was why, on the afternoon of the funeral of her favourite teacher and first mentor she was here instead.<p>

After all, someone had to take care of the animals, and who better than her? From the near corner of the magically expanded shed Clover gave a hungry squawk, and Molly absently tossed her a ferret from the rack, stroking the feathered head with its unusual black marking as she surveyed the scene before her. Despite his retirement as Professor nearly fifteen years beforehand, Hagrid had stayed on as gamekeeper until the day his heart started giving out, just under a month ago now.

In his place he had cheerfully assisted Professor Bacher, an old friend of Charlie's from the dragon reserve, adjust to Hogwarts life, and continued to care for the beast residents of the school and forest with the help of his half-brother. Molly recalled him telling her and her cousins on more than one occasion over tea and concrete rock-cakes that Hogwarts was his life, his pets his family, and that leaving them would be like dying. Except now he was really dead.

A low rumbling noise caught her attention from a cloth-draped enclosure which Clover hissed at through her beak-full of rodent. As she moved towards it a rustling in the rafters caught her attention and she spied several mated pairs of jobberknolls peeking over the edge of their nests. Professor O'Donnell, the potions mistress had apparently been glad to have a source of fresh feathers for her classes. Old Musty the fwooper was also flitting about overhead, his once fluorescent plumage now a faded pastel yellow. He gave a low warble as he spotted her staring at him and she couldn't help but chuckle. Hagrid had never been very good at remembering to reapply the required silencing charm.

Another rumble from under the blanket prompted her to her original inquiry and she ignored Clover's anxious squawk of protest as she lifted the heavily patched cloth. Her gasp was covered by another rumbling snore as the tiny re'em calf shifted in its sleep. Trust Hagrid to still keep illegally imported creatures, she thought with wry amusement.

The little calf's soft golden flank rose and fell, and its cloven hooves twitched like the Bracken's dog Duke when he dreamed of chasing rabbits. To keep an Class A restricted animal was a serious penalty, but with two cousins and an uncle in MLE, she could probably keep it quiet for long enough to get the little beauty to Luna and Rolf. Molly's husband Thomas had long since resigned himself to random animals being sheltered under their roof and their twins Emma and Morgan were just about old enough now to help with caring for them. Even little Davey had shown a love for creatures great and small, and they had spent his fourth birthday at the muggle zoo only a few weeks ago.

Davey had already decided he was going to be a dragon tamer, and Uncle Charlie had promised to let him help out on the reserve once he turned ten. Such a wonderful family, except maybe her sister, who none of them really counted anyway. Certainly Lucy had done everything possible to distance herself from all Weasleys and Potters, but there was always one bad egg in the laying.

A sharp peck on her hand reminded her of the adolescent hippogriff, who had finished her first ferret and was hopping from claw to claw, her splinted wing hanging listlessly by her side.

"Okay girl, here you go," she murmured, fetching another handful of rodent for the hungry creature before she examined the remaining cages. Nothing too bad there; a small cage of nifflers, a mated pair of clabberts, a bowtruckle with its long stick-like fingers bound in a white handkerchief sling and a pogrebin curled under the hay-pile in the far corner.

Nothing she couldn't manage for a day or two while everyone else recovered from the death of a man they had all known and loved. And she could say goodbye to one of the teachers of her heart by doing the thing he cared about more than anyone else. She could take care of his family.


	40. The Missing

Written for the Who the heck is that challenge on HPFC

Character: Caradoc Dearborn

* * *

><p>"You!"<p>

The moment he sees the mask slip to reveal the face he knows he had to get away and warn the others. For months now they had suspected a traitor in their ranks, but no-one seemed a likely candidate. Sure the Lupin boy vanished from time to time, but he was camping out with that filthy pack of vagabond werewolves, and Minerva kept a close eye on him. Certainly Black had the family connections, and the possibility of threats to the brother he pretended he didn't care about to make him turn, but Caradoc doubted the boy had the subtlety to split himself that way.

Fletcher, the disgusting sneak, though they kept him well away from anything important; Meadows, whose sister was married to a Selwyn; Even Caradoc himself had been under suspicion at one point simply for not being airheaded enough to have been sorted into Gryffindor during his schooldays.

Certainly the last person any of them would have expected was the pinch-faced boy standing here now.

"You fool! Put your mask back on!"

Caradoc doesn't recognise the hissed voice as the tallest of his captors slaps Pettigrew over his head, but that doesn't matter. He is dead regardless of what actions he takes now; the only thing left to negotiate is the manner of his end. This in mind, he leaps at the nearest black-robed figure, aiming first for the wand clasped in the gnarled fingers, then for the throat when he fails to obtain the wand, hoping they will kill him quickly to protect their ally.

When everything goes black in a sudden flash of light, he is glad for his Ravenclaw heritage that allowed him to out-think his opponents, at least until he wakes in the dank cell.

…

The chains that bind his wrists are nearly loose enough to slip now, a sign of how much weight he has lost. How long has it been? Two months? Two years? Possibly only two days. There is no light down here to tell, and they never fed him regularly. The questions are always the same: Where is the Order hiding? Who is their Secret Keeper? What do they know of our plans? What protections do they have in place at the Ministry? At Hogwarts?

Sometimes he answers, sometimes he finds the strength to resist. Sometimes he lies, sometimes he tells the truth in the vain hope that they will set him free, but he always ends up back in the dark, in the damp dripping cold.

Until today. Today there are two black-robed figures at the door. The one on the left has the squat plumpness of Pettigrew behind his mask, while the other is taller, thinner, trembling.

"Get up."

He obeys without hesitation; not obeying leads to more pain, more hunger.

They each grasp an arm and drag him into darkness, choking and suffocating into the fresh salty air. Grey stone beach with grey-blue waves. A good a place to die as any. He doesn't bother trying as the taller one raises his wand, doesn't blink as the spell flashes out to end his life. He is falling, falling…

...

The stones dig into his back as he tries to stand. A pair of hands reaches down and helps him up, a teenage boy and his friend. One is short and plump and sweaty, the other tall, dark haired and handsome.

"Looks like you slipped mate," says the taller one.

Slipped? He doesn't remember slipping. Or even walking. Why is he here on this beach anyway?

"I guess you're on your way to catch that ferry."

He looks at the ticket in his hand. Of course, the ferry. That's right, he was going to go catch the ferry and live on the island over there for the rest of his days. He never wants to go back to London or anywhere else on mainland Britain again.

Thanking the two boys for their kindness, he picks his way down the path, trying to remember why exactly he decided this. Or what his name is for that matter.

A distant thought echoes in his mind, there was something he needed to do. Something he needed to tell someone, but he can't remember. Not a problem, they'll come find him if it's important enough. They can find him on his island, where he wants to spend the rest of his days.

Humming to himself, the older man wanders down to the dock and boards the boat to his new life.


End file.
